George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“Were you afraid I should kill him,” he said, with an angry glare in his eyes.

“Yes, or that he might kill you. Pierce, dear, if I have deceived you, it was because I loved you, and I was fighting your fight.”

Indeed! he said, bitterly.

“He has been watching for me, and coming here constantly ever since we came to the house. I couldn’t go down the village, or for a walk without his meeting me. He has made my life hateful to me.”

“And you could not appeal to your brother for help and protection?”

“I was going to, dear, but matters happened so that I determined to be silent. No, no, don’t touch me till you have heard all. I found how you loved poor Kate.”

“Will you be silent!” he raged out.

“No, not if I die for it. I found out how you loved Kate, and I soon knew that they meant her for that—that dreadful boy, while all the time he was trying to pay his addresses to me. Then I made up my mind to give him just a little encouragement—to draw him on, so as to be able to let Kate see how utterly contemptible and unworthy he was, for I could lead him on until she surprised us together some day, when all would have been over at once, for she would never have listened to him. Do you hear me, Pierce? I tried to fool him, but he has fooled me instead, and robbed me of my own brother’s love.”

“What do you mean by fooling you?” he cried, with his attention arrested at last.

“We have been all wrong, dear; I found it out to-night. He did not take Kate away.”

“What! Why, they were seen together by that poaching vagabond, Barker, the fellow the keeper shot at and I attended. He watched them.”

“No, dear; it was not Kate with him then: it was I. Kate is gone, and he is in a rage about it.”

“Gone? With whom?”

“With—with—oh! Pierce, Pierce! say some kind word to me; tell me you love and believe me, dear. I am hot the wicked creature you think, and—and—am I dying? Is this death?”

He laid her back quickly, and hurriedly began to bathe her temples, but ceased directly.

“Better so,” he muttered; and then with trembling hands, which rapidly grew firmer, he examined the injury, acting with such skill that when a low sigh announced that the poor girl was recovering her senses, he was just laying the injured limb in an easy position, before rising to take her hand in his.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Kate Wilton needed all her strength of mind to bear up against the depression consequent upon her self-inflicted position. As she sat back in a corner of the carriage, dimly lit by a lamp in which a quantity of thick oil was floating to and fro, she could see that Garstang in the corner diagonal to hers was either asleep or assuming to be so, and for the moment this relieved her, for she felt that it was from kindness and consideration on his part.

But the next minute she was in agony, reproaching herself bitterly for what now presented the aspect of a rashly foolish action on her part.

Then, with her mental suffering increasing, she tried to combat this idea, telling herself that she had acted wisely, for it would have been madness to have stayed at Northwood and exposed herself to the risk of further insult from her cousin, now that she knew for certain what were her uncle’s designs. For she knew that appeal to her aunt would be useless, that lady being a slave to the caprices of her son and the stern wishes of her husband, and quite ready to believe that everything they said or did was right.

And so on during the slow night journey toward London, her brain growing more and more confused by the strangeness of her position, and the absence of her natural rest, till the swaying to and fro of her thoughts seemed to be somewhat bound up with that of the thick oil in the great glass bubble of a lamp and with the stopping of the train and the roll and clang of the great milk tins taken up at various stations.

At last her fevered waking dream, as it seemed to her, was brought to an end by Garstang suddenly starting up as if from sleep to rub his condensed breath off the window-pane and look out.

“London lights,” he said.—“Asleep, my dear?”

“No, Mr Garstang. I have been awake thinking all the while.”

“Of course you would be. What an absurd, malapropos question. There, you see what it is to be a middle-aged, unfeeling man. I’m afraid we do get very selfish. Instead of trying to comfort you, and chatting pleasantly, I curl up like a great black cat and go to sleep.”

She made no reply. The words would not come.

“Cold, my dear?”

“No. I feel hot and feverish.”

“Nervous anxiety, of course. But try and master it. We shall soon be home, and you can have a good cup of tea and go to bed. A good long sleep will set you right, and you will not be thinking of what a terrible deed you have committed in coming away in this nocturnal clandestine manner. That sounds grand, doesn’t it, for a very calm, sensible move on life’s chess-board—one which effectually checks James Wilton and that pleasant young pawn his son. There, there, don’t fidget about it, pray. I have been thinking, too, and asking myself whether I have done my duty by Robert Wilton’s child in bringing you away, and I can find but one answer—yes; while conscience says that I should have been an utter brute to you if I had left you to be exposed to such a scandalous persecution.”

“Thank you, Mr Garstang,” said Kate, frankly, as she held out her hand to him. “I could not help feeling terribly agitated and ready to reproach myself for taking such a step. You do assure me that I have done right?”

“What, in coming with me, my dear?” he said, after just pressing her hand and dropping it again. “Of course I do. I was a little in doubt about it at first, but my head feels clearer after my nap, and I tell you, as an experienced man, that you have done the only thing you could do under the circumstances. This night journey excites and upsets you a bit, but I’m very much afraid that some of them at Northwood will be far worse, and serve them right.”

“Poor ’Liza will be horror-stricken,” said Kate. “I wish I had begged harder for you to bring her too.”

“Ah, poor woman! I am sorry for her,” said Garstang, thoughtfully; “servants of that devoted nature are very rare. It is an insult to call them servants; they are very dear and valuable friends. But just think a moment, my dear. To have roused her from sleep and told her to dress and come with you—to join you in your flight would have seemed to her then so mad a proceeding that it would have resulted in her alarming the house, or at least in upsetting our project. She would never have let you come.”

“I am afraid you are right,” said Kate, with a sigh.

“I am sure of it, my child; but you must communicate with her at once. She must not be kept in suspense an hour longer than we can help. Let me see, I must contrive some way of getting a letter to her.—Ah, here we are.”

For the train had slowed while they were talking, and was now gliding gently along by the platform of the great dimly lighted station.

A porter sprang on to the footboard as he let down the window.

“Luggage, sir?”

“No. Is the refreshment room open?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will do, then,” said Garstang, and he slipped a coin into the man’s hand. “Now, then, my dear, we’ll go and have a hot cup of tea at once.”

“I really could not touch any now, Mr Garstang,” said Kate.

“That’s what I daresay you said about your medicine when you were a little girl; but I must be doctor, and tell you that it is necessary to take away that nervous shivering and agitation; and besides, have a little pity on me.”

She smiled faintly as he handed her out of the carriage, and suffered herself to be led to where the cheerless refreshment room was in charge of a couple of girls, who looked particularly sleepy and irritable, but who had been comforting themselves with that very rare railway beverage, a cup of freshly made tea.

“There, I am sure you feel better for that,” said Garstang, as he drew his companion’s arm through his and led her out of the station, ignoring the offers of cabman after cabman. “A nice, little, quick walk will circulate your blood, and then we’ll take a cab and go home.”

She acquiesced, and he took her along at a brisk pace through the gas-lit streets, passing few people but an occasional policeman who looked at them keenly, and the men busy in gangs sweeping the city streets; but at the end of a quarter of an hour he raised his hand to the sleepy looking driver of a four-wheeler, handed his companion in, gave the man his instructions, and then followed, to sit opposite to her, and drew up the window, when the wretched vehicle went off with the glass jangling and jarring so that conversation became difficult.

“There!” said Garstang, merrily; “now, my dear, I am going to confess to a great deal of artfulness and cunning.”

She looked at him nervously.

“This is a miserable cab, and I could have obtained a far better one in the station, but now you have come away it’s to find peace, quiet, and happiness, eh?”

“I hope so, Mr Garstang.”

“Yes, and you shall have those three necessities to a young girl’s life, or John Garstang will know the reason why. So to begin with I was not going to have James Wilton and his unlicked cub coming up to town some time this morning, enlisting the services of a clever officer, who would question the porters at the terminus till he found the man who asked me about luggage, and then gather from that man that he called cab number nine millions and something to drive us away. Then, as they keep a record of the cabs which take up and where they are going, for the benefit of that stupid class of passengers who are always leaving their umbrellas and bags on seats, that record would be examined, number nine millions and something found, questioned, and ready to endorse the entry as to where we were going; and the next thing would have been Uncle James and Cousin Claud calling at my house, insisting upon seeing you, and consequently a desperate row, which would upset you and make me say things again which would cause me to repent. Now do you see?”

“Yes,” she said, gravely; “they will not follow us now.”

“I hope not, but it is of no use to be sure. I am taking every precaution I can; and I shall finish by getting out where I told the man—Russell Square; and we will walk the rest of the way.”

Kate did not speak, for a vague terror was beginning to oppress her, which her companion’s bright cheery way had hard work to disperse.

“It is of no use to be sure about anything, but if they do find out that you have come with me, these proceedings will throw them off the scent. Your uncle does not know that I have a house in Great Ormond Street. Of course he knows of my offices in Bedford Row, and of my place at Chislehurst, where Harry Dasent lives with me—when he condescends to be at home. Come, you seem brighter and more cheerful now, but you will not be right till you have had a good long sleep.”

Very little was said for the rest of the journey, the cab drawing up at the end of the narrow passage close to Southampton Row, where there was no thoroughfare for horses; and after the man was paid, Garstang led his companion along the pavement as if about to enter one of the houses, going slowly till the cab was driven off. Then, increasing his pace, he led the way into the great square, along one side, making for the east, and finally stopped suddenly in front of a grim-looking red-brick mansion in Great Ormond Street—a house which in the gloomy morning, just before dawn, had a prison-like aspect which made the girl shiver.

“Strange how cold it is just before day,” said Garstang, leading the way up the steps, glancing sharply to right and left the while. The next moment a latch-key had opened the ponderous door, and they stood in a great hall dimly seen to be full of shadow, till Garstang struck a match, applied it beneath a glass globe, and revealed the proportions of the place, which were ample and set off by rich rugs, and old oak presses full of blue china, while here and there were pictures which looked old and good.

“Welcome home, my child,” said Garstang, with tender respect. “It looks gloomy now, but you are tired, faint, and oppressed with trouble. This way.”

He led the girl to a door at the foot of a broad staircase, opened it, entered the room, and once more struck a match, to apply it to a couple of great globes held up by bronze figures on the great carved oak mantelpiece, and as the handsome, old-fashioned room lit up, he stopped and applied a match to the paper of a well-laid fire, which began to burn briskly, and added the warmth and glow of its flames and the cheery crackle of the wood to the light shed by the globes.

“There,” he continued, drawing forward a great leather-covered easy chair to the front of the fire, “take off your hat, but keep your cloak on till the room gets warmer. It will soon be right.”

She obeyed, trying to be firm, but her hands trembled a little as she glanced at her strange surroundings the while, to see that the room was heavily but richly furnished, much of the panelled oak wall being taken up by great carved cabinets, full of curious china, while plates and vases were ranged abundantly on brackets, or suspended by hooks wherever space allowed. These relieved the heaviness of the thick hangings about a stained-glass window and over the doors, lying in folds upon the thick Persian carpet, while as the fire burned up a thousand little reflections came from the glaze of china, and wood polished as bright as hands could make it.

“You did not know I was quite a collector of these things, my dear. I hope you will take an interest in them by-and-by. But to begin with, let me say this—that I hope you will consider this calm old house your sanctuary as well as home, that you are its mistress as long as you please, and give your orders to the servants for anything that seems to be wanting.”

“You are very good to me, Mr Garstang,” faltered Kate, who felt that the vague terror from which she had suffered was dying away.

“Good? Absurd! Now, then, you will not mind being left alone for a few minutes? I am going to awaken my housekeeper and her daughter. Rather an early call.”

As he spoke a great clock over the mantelpiece began to chime musically, and was followed by the hour in deep, rich, vibrating tones.

“It’s a long time since I was up at five in the morning,” said Garstang, cheerily. “Hah! a capital fire soon. Becky is very clever at laying fires. You will find her and her mother rather quaint, but they are devoted to me. Excellent servants. I never see anyone else’s house so clean. There, I shall not be long.”

He smiled at her pleasantly, and left the room, while, as the door closed, and the heavy folds of the portiere dropped down, Kate sank back in her chair, and the tears which had been gathering for hours fell fast. Then she drew herself up with a sigh, and hastily wiped her eyes, as if relieved and prepared to meet this new change of fate.

Garstang’s few minutes proved to be nearly a quarter of an hour, during which, after a glance or two round the room, Kate sat thinking, with her ideas setting first in one direction, then ebbing in the other, the feeling that she had done wrong predominating; but her new guardian’s reappearance changed their course again, and she could feel nothing but gratitude to one whose every thought seemed to be to make her position bearable.

“I could not be cross with them,” he said, as he entered; “but it is an astonishing thing how people who have neither worry nor trouble in the world can sleep. Now those two have nothing on their minds but the care of this house, which came to me through an old client, and in which I very seldom live! and I believe they pass half their time drowsing through existence. If the truth were known, they were in bed by nine o’clock last night, and they were so soundly asleep that the place might have been burned down without their waking.”

“It seems a shame to disturb them,” said Kate, with a faint smile.

“What? Not at all, my child. Do them good; they want rousing out of their lethargy. I have told them to prepare a bedroom for you, and I should advise you to retire as soon as they say it is ready. There is no fear of damp, for the rooms are constantly having fires in them, and Sarah Plant is most trustworthy. Go and have a good long sleep, and some time in the afternoon we will have a discussion on ways and means. You will have to go shopping, and I shall have to play guardian and carry the parcels. By the way, you will want some money. Have you any?”

“I have a few pounds, Mr Garstang.”

“Perhaps that will do for the present; if not, please bear in mind that you have unlimited credit with your banker. I am that banker till you can declare yourself independent, so have no compunction whatever about asking for what you need Is there anything more that I can do for you?”

“No, Mr Garstang; only to contrive a way of getting Eliza here.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I will not forget that; but we must be careful. We don’t want any more quarrelling. It is bad for you, and it upsets me. Ah, they’re ready.”

For at that moment there was a soft tapping at the door.

“Your bedroom is the one over this, and I hope you will find it comfortable. No trees to look out upon; no flowers; no bright full moon; plenty of bricks, mortar, and chimney-pots; but there are rest and peace for you, my child; so go, and believe that I am ready to fight your battles and to make you happy here. I can if you will only help.”

“I shall try, Mr Garstang,” she said, with a faint smile.

“Then c’est un fait accompli,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Good-night—I mean, good morning. Sarah is waiting to show you to your room.”

She placed her hand in his for a few moments, and then with heart too full for words she hurried to the door and passed through into the hall, to find a strange-looking, dry, elderly woman standing on the skin mat at the foot of the stairs, holding a massive silver bedroom candlestick in her hand, and peering at her curiously, but ready to lower her eyes directly.

“This way, please, miss,” she said, in a lachrymose tone of voice; and she began to ascend the low, wide, thickly-carpeted stairs, holding the candle before her, and showing her gaunt, angular body against a faint halo of light.

Kate followed, wondering, and feeling as if she were in a dream, while Garstang was slowly walking up and down among his cabinets, rubbing his hands softly, and smiling in a peculiar way.

“Promises well,” he said softly; “promises well, but I have my work cut out, and I have not reckoned with Harry Dasent yet.”

He stopped short, thinking, and then involuntarily raised his eyes, to find that he was exactly opposite a curious old Venetian mirror, which reflected clearly the upper portion of his form.

He started slightly, and then stood watching the clearly seen image of his face, ending by smiling at it in a peculiar way.

“Not so very old yet,” he said softly; “a woman is a woman, and it only depends upon how you play your cards.”

“But there is Harry. Ah, I must not reckon without him.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

Kate’s conductress had stopped at a door on the first floor, above which an old portrait hung, so that when the woman held the candle which she carried above the level of her head, the bodily and mentally weary girl felt that two people were peering cautiously at her, and she gladly entered the old-fashioned, handsomely-furnished room, and stood by the newly-lit fire, which, with the candles lit on the chimney-piece and dressing-table, gave it a cheerful welcoming aspect.

She could not have explained why, but the aspect of the woman would suggest dead leaves, and the saddened plaintive tone of her voice brought up the sighing of the wind in the windows of the old house at Northwood.

“I took some of the knobs of coal off, miss, for Becky always will put on too much,” said the woman plaintively, as she took her former attitude, holding the candle on high, and gazed at the new-comer. “I always say to her that when she gets married and pays for coals herself she’ll know what they cost, though I don’t know who’d marry her, I’m sure. I’ll put ’em back if you like.”

“There will be plenty of fire—none was needed,” said Kate, wearily. “I only want to rest.”

“Of course you do, miss,” said the woman, still watching her, with face wrinkled and eyes half closed. “And you needn’t be afraid of the bed. Everything’s as dry as a bone. Becky and me slep’ in it two nights ago. We sleep in a different bed every night so as to keep ’em all aired, as master’s very particular about the damp.”

“Thank you; I am sure you have done what is necessary,” said Kate, who in her low nervous state was troubled by the woman’s persistent inquiring stare.

“Is there anything I can do for you, miss?”

“Thank you, no. I am very tired, and will try and sleep.”

“Because I can soon get you a cup of tea, miss.”

“Not now, thank you. In the morning. I will not trouble you now.”

“It’s to-morrow morning a’ready, my dear, and nothing’s a trouble to me,” said the woman, despondently, “’cept Becky.”

“Thank you very much, but please leave me now.”

“Yes, miss, of course. There’s the bells: one rings upstairs and the other down, so it will be safest to ring ’em both, for it’s a big house—yes,” she continued, thoughtfully, “a very big house, and there’s no knowing where Becky and me may be.”

“Ah,” sighed Kate, as at last she was relieved from the pertinacious curious stare, for the door had closed; but as she sank wearily in a lounge chair the housekeeper seemed photographed upon her brain, and one moment she was staring at her with candle held above her head, the next it was the face of the handsome woman above the door, peering inquiringly down as if wondering to see her there.

The candles burned brightly and the fire crackled and blazed, and then there was a peculiar roaring sound as of the train rushing along through the black night; the room grew darker, and shrank in its proportions till it was the gloomy first-class carriage, with the oil washing to and fro in the thick glass bubble lamp, while John Garstang sat back in the corner, and Kate started up, to shake her head and stare about her wonderingly, as she mentally asked herself where she was, and shivered as she recognised the fire, and the candles upon the mantelpiece.

She glanced round at the turned-down bed, looking inviting beneath the thick dark hangings, and felt that it would be better to lie down and rest, but thought that she would first fasten the door.

She rose, after waiting for a few moments to let her head get clearer, and walked on over the soft carpet toward the dark door, which kept on receding as she went, while the power seemed to be given her to see through it as if it were some strange transparency. Away beyond it was John Garstang, waving her on towards him, always keeping the same distance off, till it grew darker and darker, and then lighter, for the fire was blazing up and the wood was crackling, as there was the sound of a poker being placed back in the fender; and there, as she opened her eyes widely, stood the woman with the chamber candlestick held high above her head, gazing at her in the former inquiring way.

“It is a part of a nightmare-like dream,” said Kate to herself; “my head is confused with trouble and want of rest;” and as in a troubled way she lay back in the chair, she fully expected to see the face of the woman give place to that over the door, and then to John Garstang moving slowly on and on and beckoning her to come away from Northwood Manor House, where her aunt and uncle were trying to hurry her off to the church, where Claud was waiting, and Doctor Leigh and his sister stood in deep mourning, gazing at her with reproachful eyes.

As her thoughts ran in that way she mentally pictured everything with a vividness that was most strange, and she was rapidly gliding back into insensibility when the woman spoke, and she started back, with her head quite clear, while a strange feeling of irritability and anger made her features contract.

“Awake, miss?” said the woman, plaintively.

“Yes, yes; why did you come back? I will ring when I want you—both bells.”

“There was the fire, miss; I couldn’t let that go out I was obliged to come every hour, and I left it too long now, and had to start it with a bundle of wood.”

Kate sat up and stared back at her, then round the room, to see that the candles were burning—four—on mantelpiece and dressing-table.

“Didn’t hear me set the fresh ones up, miss, did you?” said the woman, noticing the direction of her eyes. “T’others only burned till twelve.”

“Burned till twelve—come every hour? Why, what time is it?”

“Just struck three, miss. Breakfast will be ready as soon as you are; but you’d ha’ been a deal better if you’d gone to bed. I did put you a clean night-dress, and it was beautifully aired. Becky held it before the kitchen fire ever so long, for it only wanted poking together and burned up well.”

“I—I don’t understand,” faltered Kate. “Three o’clock?”

“Yes, miss; and as black as pitch outside. Reg’lar London fog, but master’s gone out in it all the same. He said he’d be back to dinner, and you wasn’t to be disturbed on no account, for all you wanted was plenty of sleep.”

“Then I have been thoroughly asleep?”

“Yes, miss; about ten hours I should say; but you’d have been a deal better if you’d gone to bed. It do rest the spine of your back so.”

Kate rose to her feet, staggered slightly, and caught at the chair back, but the giddy sensation passed off, and she walked to the window.

“Can’t see nothing out at the back, miss,” said the woman, shaking her head, sadly. “Old master hated the tiles and chimney-pots, and had double windows made inside—all of painted glass, but you couldn’t see nothing if they weren’t there. It’s black as night, and the fog comes creeping in at every crack. What would you like me to do for you, miss?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Then I’ll go and see about the breakfast, miss. I s’pose you won’t be long?”

Kate drew a deep breath of relief once more, and trying to fight off the terrible sensation of depression and strangeness which troubled her, she hurried to the toilet table, which was well furnished, and in about half-an-hour went out on to the broad staircase, which was lit with gas, and glanced round at the pictures, cabinets, and statues with which it was furnished. Then, turning to descend, she was conscious of the fact that she was not alone, for, dimly seen, there was a strange, ghastly-looking head, tied up with a broad white handkerchief, peering round the doorway of another room, but as soon as its owner found that she had attracted attention she drew back out of sight, and Kate shuddered slightly, for the face was wild and strange in the half-light.

The staircase looked broader and better as she descended to the room into which she had been taken on her arrival, and found that it was well lit, and a cheerful fire blazing; but she had hardly had time to glance round when the woman appeared at the door.

“Breakfast’s quite ready, miss,” she said. “Will you please to come this way?”

She led the way across the hall, but paused and turned back to a door, and pushed it a little way open.

“Big lib’ry, miss. Little lib’ry’s upstairs at the back-two rooms. There’s a good fire here. Like to see it now?”

“No, not now.”

“This way then, miss,” and the woman threw open a door on the other side.

“Dining-room, miss. There ain’t no drawing-room; but master said this morning that if you wished he’d have the big front room turned into one. I put your breakfast close to the fire, for it’s a bit chilly to-day.”

Kate thought she might as well have said “to-night,” as she glanced round the formal but richly furnished room, with its bright brass fireplace, and breakfast spread on a small table, and looking attractive and good.

“I made you tea, miss, because I thought you’d like it better; but I’ll soon have some coffee ready if you prefer it. Best tea, master’s wonderfully particular about having things good.”

“I prefer tea,” said Kate, quietly, as she took her place, feeling more and more how strange and unreal everything appeared.

And now the magnitude of the step she had taken began to obtrude itself, mingled with a wearying iteration of thoughts of Northwood, and what must have been going on since the morning when her flight was first discovered. Her uncle’s anger would, she knew, be terrible! Then her cousin! She could not help picturing his rage when he found that she had escaped him. What would her aunt and the servants think of her conduct? And then it was that there was a burning sensation in her cheeks, as her thoughts turned to Leigh and his sister, the only people that during her stay at Northwood she had learned to esteem.

And somehow the burning in her cheeks increased till the tears rose to her eyes, when, as if the heat was quenched, she turned pale with misery and despair, for she felt how strongly that she had left behind in Jenny Leigh one for whom she had almost unknowingly conceived a genuine sisterly affection.

From that moment the struggle she had been having to seem calm, and at home, intensified, and she pushed away cup and saucer and rose from the table, just as the housekeeper, who had been in and out several times, reentered.

“But you haven’t done, miss?” she said, plaintively.

“Yes, thank you; I am not very well this morning,” said Kate, hastily.

“As anyone could see, miss, with half an eye; but there’s something wrong, of course.”

“Something—wrong?” faltered Kate.

“Yes, miss,” said the woman in an ill-used tone. “The tea wasn’t strong enough, or the sole wasn’t done to your liking.”

“Don’t think that, Mrs—Mrs—”

“Plant’s my name, miss—Sarah Plant, and Becky’s Becky. Don’t call me Mrs, please; I’m only the servant.”

“Well, do not think that, Sarah Plant. Everything has been particularly nice, only I have no appetite this morning—I mean, to-day.”

“You do mean that, miss?”

“Of course I do.”

“Thank you kindly, miss. I did try very hard, for master was so very particular about it. He always is particular, almost as Mr Jenour was; but this morning he was extra, and poor, dear, old master was never anything like it. Then if you please, miss, I’ll send Becky to clear away, and perhaps you’d like to go round and see your new house. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction.”

“My new house?”

“Yes, miss; master said it was yours, and that we were to look upon you as mistress and do everything you wished, just as if you were his daughter come to keep house for him. This way please, miss.”

Kate was ready to say that she wished to sit down and write, for her heart was full of self-reproach, and she longed to pour out her feelings to her old confidential maid; but the thought that it would be better perhaps to fall in with Garstang’s wishes and assume the position he had arranged for her to occupy, made her acquiesce and follow the housekeeper out of the room.

The woman touched a bell-handle in the hall, and then drew back a little, with a show of respect, as her eyes, still eagerly, and full of compassion, scanned the new mistress she had been told to obey.

“Will you go first, ma’am?”

“No: be good enough to show me what it is necessary for me to see.”

“Oh, master said I was to show you everything you liked, miss—I mean, ma’am. It’s a dreadfully dark day to show you, but I’ve got the gas lit everywhere, and it does warm the house nicely and keep out the damp.”

Kate longed to ask the woman a few questions, but she shrank from speaking, and followed her pretty well all over the place until she stopped on the first floor landing before a heavy curtain which apparently veiled a window.

“I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, ma’am—that the house has been properly kept.”

“Everything I have seen shows the greatest care,” said Kate.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the woman, and her next words aroused her companion’s attention at once, for the desire within her was strong to know more of her new guardian’s private life, though it would have been, she felt, impossible to question. “You see, master is here so very seldom that there is no encouragement for one to spend much time in cleaning and dusting, and oh, the times it has come to me like a wicked temptation to leave things till to-morrow; but I resisted, for I knew that if I did once, Becky would be sure to twice. You see, master is mostly at his other house when he isn’t at his offices, where he just has snacks and lunches brought in on trays; but it’s all going to be different now, he tells me, and the house is to be kept up properly, and very glad I am, for it has been like wilful waste for such a beautiful place never hardly to be used, and never a lady in it in my time.”

“Then Mrs Garstang did not reside here?”

“Oh, no, ma’am! nor old master’s lady neither—not in my time.”

“Mr Garstang’s father?”

“Oh, no, ma’am: Mr Jenour, who had it before master, and—and died here—I mean there,” said the woman, in a whisper, and she jerked her head toward the heavy curtain. “It was Mr Jenour’s place, and he collected all the books and china and foreign curiosities. I’ll tell you all about it some day, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” said Kate, quietly. “I will go down to the library now; I wish to write.”

“There’s pen, ink and paper in there, ma’am,” said the woman, jerking her head sideways; “and you can see the little lib’ry at the same time.”

“I would rather leave that till another time.”

“Hah!” came in a deep low sigh, as if of relief, and Kate turned quickly round in surprise, just catching sight of the face with the handkerchief bound round it that she had seen before.

It was drawn back into one of the rooms instantly, and Kate turned her questioning eyes directly upon the housekeeper.

“It’s only Becky, ma’am—my gal. She’s been following us about to peep at you all the time. I did keep shaking my head at her, but she would come.”

“Is she unwell—face-ache?” asked Kate.

“Well, no, ma’am, not now. She did have it very bad a year ago, but it got better, and she will keep tied up still for fear it should come back. She says it would drive her mad if it did; and if I make her leave off she does nothing but mope and cry, so I let her keep on. She’s a poor nervous sort of girl, and she has never been right since she lost the milkman.”

“Lost the milkman?” said Kate, wonderingly.

“He went and married someone else, ma am, as had money to set him up in business. Females has a deal to put up with in this life, as well I know. Then you won’t go and see the little lib’ry to-day, ma’am?”

“No, not to-day,” said Kate, with an involuntary shiver which made the woman look at her curiously, and the deep sigh of relief came again from the neighbouring room.

“Cold, ma’am?”

“Yes—no. A little nervous and upset with travelling,” said Kate; and she went down at once to the library, took a chair at the old-fashioned morocco-covered table, glanced round at the well-filled bookcases, and the solid rich air of comfort, with the glowing fire and softened gaslight brightening the place, and taking paper stamped with the address she began to write rapidly, explaining everything to her old maid, pleading the urgency of her position for excuse in leaving as she had, and begging that “dear old nurse” would join her at once.

She paused from time to time to look round, for the silence of the place oppressed her; and in her nervous anxious state, suffering as she was from the feeling that she had done wrong, there were moments when she could hardly refrain from tears.

But she finished her long, affectionate letter and directed it, turning round to sit gazing into the fire for a few minutes, hesitating as to whether she should do something that was in her mind.

There seemed to be no reason why she should not write to Jennie Leigh, but at the same time there was a something undefined and strange which held her back from communication; but at last decision had its way, and feeling firmer, she turned to the table once more and began to write another letter.

“Why should I have hesitated?” she said, softly; “I’m sure she likes me very much, and she will think it so very strange if I do not write.” But somehow there was a slight deepening of tint in her cheeks, and a faint sensation of glow as she wrote on, her letter being unconsciously couched in very affectionate terms; while when she had concluded and read it over she found that she had been far more explanatory than she had intended, entering fully into her feelings, and the horror and shame she had felt on discovering the way in which her cousin had been thrown with her, detailing his behaviour; and finally, in full, the scene in which Mr Garstang had protected her and spoken out, to the unveiling of the family plans.

“Pray don’t think that I have acted foolishly, dear Jenny,” she said in a postscript. “It may seem unmaidenly and strange, but I was driven to act as I did. I dared not stay; and beside being in some way a relative, Mr Garstang is so fatherly and kind that I have felt quite safe and at rest. Pray write to me soon. I shall be so glad to hear, for I fear that I shall be rather lonely; and tell your brother how grateful I am to him for his attention to me. I am much better and stronger now, thanks to him.”

The glow in her cheeks was a little deeper here, and she paused with the intention of re-writing the letter and omitting all allusion to Doctor Leigh, but she felt that it would seem ungrateful to one to whose skill she owed so much; and in spite of a sensation of nervous shrinking, the desire to let him see she was grateful was very strong.

So the letter was finished and directed.

But still she hesitated, and twice over her hand was stretched out to take and destroy the missive, while her brain grew troubled and confused.

“I can’t think,” she said to herself at last with a sigh; “my brain seems weary and confused;” and then she started from her chair in alarm, for Garstang was standing in the room, the thick curtains and soft carpet having deadened his approach; and in fact, he had been there just within the heavy portiere watching her for some minutes.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Pages 172 and 173, the first two pages of Chapter XXVI, are missing from the scan. We will continue to try to find what was upon them.

the best way, but it was the best way that offered, was it not?”

“Of course; yes,” she said eagerly.

“Yes, decidedly it was,” he said, still speaking in the same quiet, thoughtful way. “You set me thinking, too, my dear, whether I have done right by you in bringing you here. Yes,” he said, turning upon her sharply, “I am sure I have, if I treat it as a temporary asylum. Yes, it is right, my child: but perhaps we ought to set to at once—if you feel equal to it, and now that we have time and no fear of interruption—and go over what distant relations or what friends you have, and invite the most suitable, that is to say, the one you would prefer—always supposing this individual possesses the firmness to protect you. Then he or she shall be sent for, and you shall go there.”

“I do not wish to be ungrateful to you, Mr Garstang.”

“You ungrateful! It isn’t in your nature, my dear. But what do you think of my suggestion?”

“I think it is right, and what I should do,” she replied.

“Very well then, you shall do it, my dear child; but you cannot, of course, do it to-night. It is a very important step, and you must choose deliberately, and after due and careful thought. In the meantime, Great Ormond Street is your temporary resting-place, where you are quite safe, and can make your plans in peace. As for me, I am your elderly relative, and we, I mean Mrs Plant and I, are delighted to have the monotony of the place relieved by your coming. Now, is this right?—does it set your little fluttering heart at rest?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr Garstang. I—I am greatly relieved.”

“Very well then, let us set all ‘the cares that infest the day,’ as the poet has it, aside, and have a calm, restful evening. You need it, and I must confess that I do not feel in my customary fettle, as the country folk call it. Why, you look better already. I see how it is. Your mind is more at ease.”

She smiled.

“That’s right; and by the way, man-like I did not think of it till I reached my office to see some letters. I did tell Mrs Plant to try and make everything right for you here, but it never occurred to me that a lady is not like a man.”

She looked at him wonderingly.

“I mean that a man can get along with a clean collar, a tooth-brush, and a pocket-comb, while a lady—”

He stopped and smiled.

“Now, look here, my child,” he said, “I will leave you for a few minutes while you ring and have up Mrs Plant. You can give her what instructions you like about immediate necessities, and they can be fetched while we are at dinner. Other things you can obtain at leisure yourself.”

“Thank you, Mr Garstang,” said Kate, with the look of confidence in her eyes increasing, as she rose from her seat and laid her hands in his.

“No, no, please don’t,” he said, with a pleasant smile, as he gently returned the pressure of her hands, and then dropped them. “Let’s see, dinner in half an hour.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t think me a gourmet, please, because I think a good deal of my dinner; for I work very hard, and I find that I must eat. There, I’ll leave you for a bit.”

He laid his book on the table, nodded and smiled, and walked out of the room, while with the tears rising to her eyes Kate stood gazing after him, feeling that the cloud hanging over her was lightening, and that she was going to find rest.

She rang, and Sarah Plant appeared with her head on one side, looking more withered than ever, and to her was explained the needs of the moment.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the woman, plaintively; “of course I’ll go, only there’s the dinner, and if I wait till afterwards the shops will be shut up. I don’t think you or master would like Becky to wait table with her face tied up, and if I make her take the handkerchief off she’ll go into shrieking hysterics, and that will be worse. And then—would you mind looking out, ma’am?”

She walked slowly across to the window, and drew aside one of the heavy curtains.

Kate followed her, looked, and turned to the woman.

“Draw up the blind,” she said.

There was a feeble smile, and a shake of the head.

“It is up, ma’am, and it’s been like that all day—black as pitch. Plagues of Ejup couldn’t have been worse.”

“Oh, it is impossible for you to go,” said Kate, quickly. “What am I to do?”

“Well, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind, I think I could tell you. You see, master come to this place when Mr Jenour died, and there hasn’t been a thing taken away since. It’s just as it used to be when Mrs Jenour was alive, years before. There’s drawers and drawers and wardrobes full of everything a lady can want; and there’s never a week goes by that I don’t spend hours in going over and folding and airing, and I spend shillings and shillings every year in lavender. So if you wouldn’t mind—”

Sarah Plant did not finish her sentence, but stood looking appealingly at the visitor.

“It is impossible for you to go out, Mrs Plant.”

“Sarah, if you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, and it’s very good of you to say so.”

“Well, then, Sarah,” said Kate, smiling, and feeling more at ease, “you shall help me to get over the difficulty. Now go and see to your duties. I do not wish Mr Garstang to be troubled by my visit.”

“Troubled, my dear young lady! I’m sure he’d be pleased to do anything. I’m not given to chatter and gossip, and, as I’ve often told Becky, if she’d been more obedient to me, and not been so foolish as to talk to milkmen, she’d have been a happier girl. But I can’t help telling you what I heard master say this morning to himself, after he’d been giving me my orders: ‘Ah,’ he says, quite soft like, ‘if I had had a child like that!’ and of course, miss, he meant you.”

Speaking dramatically, this formed Sarah Plant’s exit, but Kate called her back.

“Would you mind and see that these two letters are posted? Have you any stamps?”

“There’s lots, ma’am, in that little stand,” said the woman, pointing to the table; and a couple being affixed the woman took the letters out with her.

About half an hour later Garstang entered, smiling pleasantly, and offering his arm.

“Dinner is waiting,” he said, and he led his guest into the dining-room, where over a well-served meal, with everything in the best of taste, he laid himself out to increase the feeling of confidence he saw growing in Kate’s eyes.

His conversation was clever, if not brilliant; he showed that he had an amply stored mind, and his bearing was full of chivalrous respect; while feeling more at rest, Kate felt drawn to him, and the magnitude of her step grew less in her troubled eyes.

The dinner was at an end, and they were seated over the dessert, Garstang sipping most temperately at his one glass of claret from time to time, and for some minutes there had been silence, during which he had been gazing thoughtfully at the girl.

“The most pleasant meal I have had for years,” he said suddenly, “and I feel loath to break the charm, but it is time for the lady of the house to rise. Will you make the curiosity place the drawing-room, and when the tea has been brought up, send for me? I shall be longing to come, for I enjoy so little of the simple domestic.”

Sarah Plant’s words came to Kate’s mind, “Ah, if I had had a child like that!” and the feeling of rest and confidence still grew, as Garstang rose and crossed the room to open the door for her.

“By the way, there is one little thing, my dear child,” he said gravely.

Kate started, and her hand went to her breast.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, smiling, “a mere trifle in your interest. You are rapidly getting over the shock caused by the troubles of the past twenty-four hours or so, but you are not in a condition to bear more.”

“My uncle!” cried Kate, excitedly.

“Exactly,” said Garstang firmly. “You see, the very mention of trouble sends the blood rushing to your heart. Those letters that were lying on the hall table ready for posting: is it wise to send them and bring him here post haste, with his gentlemanly son? Yes, I know neither is to him, but he would know where you were as soon as he saw your letter in the bag.”

“Mr Garstang, you do not think he would dare to open a letter addressed to my maid?”

“Yes,” said Garstang, quietly; “unfortunately I do.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Claud Wilton took to the search for his cousin with the greater eagerness that he found it much more pleasant to be where he was not likely to come in contact with Pierce Leigh, for there was something about that gentleman’s manner which he did not like. He knew of his ability in mending bones, for he had become aware of what was done when one labourer fell off a haystack, and when another went to sleep when riding on the shafts of a wagon, dived under the wheels, and had both his legs broken; but all this was suggestive of his ability to break bones as well, and recalling a horse-whipping, received in the hunting field, from the brother of a young lady to whom he had been too polite, he scrupulously avoided running further risks. Consequently, after the unpleasant interruption of his meeting with Jenny Leigh, he lost no time in getting up to town, being pretty well supplied with money by his father, who was to follow next day.

“I’m short of cash, my boy,” said Wilton; “but this is a case in which we must not spare expense.”

“Go to Scotland Yard, and set the detectives to work?”

“In heaven’s name no, boy! We must be our own detectives, and hunt them out. Curse the young scoundrel. I might have known he would be after no good. An infernal poacher on our preserves, boy.”

“Yes, guv’nor; and he has got clear off with the game.”

“Then you must run him down, and when you have found out where he is, communicate with me; I must be there at the meeting.”

“What? Lose time like that! No, guv’nor; I’ll half kill him—hang me if I don’t.”

“No, no! I know you feel ready to—a villain—but that won’t do. You’ll only frighten the poor girl more, and she’ll cling to him instead of coming away with you.”

“But, guv’nor—”

“Don’t hesitate, boy; I tell you I’m right. Let’s get Kate away from him, and then you may break every bone in his skin if you like.”

“But I want to give him a lesson at once.”

“Yes, of course you do—but Kate and her fortune, my boy. Once you’re on the scent, telegraph to me. I’ll come and stay at Day’s, in Surrey Street.”

“Suppose they’re gone abroad, guv’nor?”

“Well, follow them—all round the world if it’s necessary. By the way, you’ve always been very thick with Harry; now, between men of the world, has there ever been any affair going on? You know what I mean.”

“Lots, dad.”

“Ah!—Ever married either of them?”

“Not he.”

“That’s a pity,” said Wilton, “because it would have made matters so easy. Well, there, be off. The dog-cart’s at the door.”

Claud slapped his pocket, started for the station, and went up to stay at a bigger hotel than the quiet little place affected by his father; and about twelve o’clock the next day he presented himself at Garstang’s office, where Barlow, the old clerk, was busy answering letters for his employer to sign.

“Morning, Barlow,” said Claud, “Mr Harry in his room?”

“Mr Harry, sir? No, sir. I thought he was down with you, shooting and hunting.”

“Eh? Did he say that he was going down to Northwood?”

“Well, dear me! Really, Mr Claud Wilton, sir, I can’t be sure. I think I did hear him say something about Northwood; but whether it was that he was going there or had come back from there I really am not sure. Many pheasants this season?”

“Oh, never mind the pheasants,” cried Claud, impatiently. “When was that?”

“Dear me now,” said the man, thoughtfully; “now when was that—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—?”

“Thursday, Friday, Saturday,” cried Claud, impatiently. “What a dawdling old buffer you are! Come, when was it: you must know?”

“Really, sir, I can’t be sure.”

“Was it this week?”

“I shouldn’t like to say, sir.”

“Well, last week then?”

“It might have been, sir.”

“Yah!” growled Claud. “Think he’s down at Chislehurst?”

“He may be, sir.”

“Yes, and he may be at Jericho.”

“Yes, sir; but you’ll excuse me, there was a knock.”

The clerk shuffled off his stool, and went to the door to admit a fresh visitor in the person of Wilton pere.

“Ah, Claud, my boy! You here?”

“Yes, father, I’m here; just come,” said the young man, sulkily.

“Well, found them?”

“Do I look as if I had found them, dad? No.”

“Tut-tut-tut!” ejaculated Wilton, who looked pale and worn with anxiety. “Mr Garstang in, Mr Barlow?”

“Yes, sir,” said the clerk; “shall I say you are here?”

“Ye-es,” said Wilton. “Take in my card, and say that I shall be obliged if he will give me an interview.”

The old clerk bowed, and left the outer office for the inner, while Wilton turned to his son, to say hastily, “You may as well come in with me as you are here.”

“Thanks, no; much obliged. What made you come here? You don’t think he’s likely to know?”

“Yes, I do,” said Wilton, in a low voice. “I believe young Harry’s carried her off, and that he’s backing him up. You must come in with me: we must work together.”

“Mr Garstang will see you, gentlemen,” said the old clerk, entering.

“Gentlemen!” muttered Claud angrily, to his father.

“Yes, don’t leave me in the lurch, my boy,” whispered Wilton; and Claud noted a tremor in his father’s voice, and saw that he looked nervous and troubled.

Wilton made way for his son to pass in first, the young man drew back for his father, and matters were compromised by their entering together, Garstang, who looked perfectly calm, rising to motion them to seats, which they took; and then there was silence for a few moments, during which Claud sat tapping his teeth with the ivory handle of the stick he carried, keeping his eyes fixed the while upon his father, who seemed in doubt how to begin.

“May I ask why I am favoured with this visit, gentlemen?” said Garstang, at last.

This started Wilton, who coughed, pulled himself together, and looking the speaker fully in the face, said sharply,

“We came, Mr John Garstang, because we supposed that we should be expected.”

“Expected?” said Garstang, turning a little more round from his table, and passing one shapely leg over the other, so that he could grasp his ankle with both hands. “Well, I will be frank with you, James Wilton; there were moments when I did think it possible that you might come; I will not say to apologise, but to consult with me about that poor girl’s future. How is she?”

Father and son exchanged glances, the former being evidently taken a little aback.

“Well,” said Garstang, without pausing for an answer to this question; “I am glad you have come in a friendly spirit; I shall be pleased to meet you in the same way, so pray speak out. Let us have no fencing. Tell me what you propose to do.”

Wilton coughed again, and looked at his son.

“You must see,” said Garstang firmly, “that a fresh arrangement ought to be made at once. Under the circumstances she cannot stay at Northwood, and I will own that I am not prepared to suggest any relative of her father who seems suitable for the purpose. The large fortune which the poor child will inherit naturally acts as a bait, and there must be no risk of the poor girl being exposed to the pertinacious advances of every thoughtless boy who wishes to handle her money.”

“I say, look here,” cried Claud, “if you want to pick a quarrel, say so, and I’ll go.”

“I have no wish to pick a quarrel, young man,” replied Garstang, sternly; “and I should not have spoken like this if you had not sought me out. Perhaps you had better stay, sir, and hear what your father has to propose, unless he has already taken you into his confidence.”

“Well, he hasn’t,” said Claud, sulkily. “Go on, guv’nor, and get it over.”

“Yes, James Wilton, go on, please, as your son suggests, and get it over. My time is valuable, and in such a case as this, between relatives, I shall be unable to make a charge for legal services. Now then, once more, what do you propose?”

“About what?” said Wilton, bluntly.

“About the future home of your niece?”

“Ah, that’s what I’ve come about,” said Wilton, gazing at the other sternly. “Where is she?”

Garstang looked at him blankly for a few moments.

“Where is she?” he said at last. “What do you mean?”

“What I say: where is Kate Wilton?”

“Where is she?” cried Garstang, changing his manner, and speaking now with a display of eagerness very different from his calm dignified way of a few minutes before. “Why, you don’t mean to say that she has gone?”

“Yes, I do mean to say that she has gone.”

“Bravo!” cried Garstang, putting down the leg he had been nursing, and giving it a hearty slap. “The brave little thing! I should not have thought that she had it in her.”

“That won’t do, John Garstang,” said Wilton, sourly; “and it’s of no use to act. The law’s your profession—not acting. Now then, I want to know where she is.”

“How should I know, man? She was not placed in my charge.”

“You know, sir, because it was in your interest to know. This isn’t the first time I’ve known you play your cards, but you’re not playing them well: so you had better throw up your hand.”

“Look here, James Wilton,” said Garstang, looking at him curiously; “have you come here to insult me with your suspicions? If this young lady has left your roof, do you suppose I have had anything to do with it?”

“Yes, I do, and a great deal,” cried Wilton, angrily. “You can’t hoodwink me, even if you can net me and fleece me. Do you think I am blind?”

“In some things, very,” said Garstang, contemptuously—

“Then I’m not in this. I see through your plans clearly enough, but you are checked. Where is that boy of yours?”

“I have no boy,” said Garstang, contemptuously.

“Well, then, where is your stepson?”

“I do not know, James Wilton. Harry Dasent has long enough ago taken, as your son here would say, the bit in his teeth. I have not seen him since he came down to your place. But surely,” he cried, springing up excitedly, “you do not think—”

“Yes, I do think, sir,” cried Wilton, rising too; “I am sure that young scoundrel has carried her off. He has been hanging about my place all he could since she has been there, and paying all the court he could to her, and you know it as well as I do, the scoundrel has persuaded her that she was ill-used, and lured her away.”

“By Jove!” said Garstang, softly, as he stood looking thoughtfully at the carpet, and apparently hardly hearing a word in his stupefaction at this announcement,

“Do you hear what I say, sir?” cried Wilton, fiercely, for he was now thoroughly angry; “do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Garstang, making an effort as if to rouse himself. “Well, and if it is as you suspect, what then? Reckless as he is, Harry Dasent would make her as good a husband as Claud Wilton, and a better, for he is not related to her by blood.”

“You dare to tell me that!” thundered Wilton.

“Yes, of course,” said Garstang, coolly. “Why not?”

“Then you do know of it; you are at the bottom of it all; you have helped him to carry her off.”

“I swear I have not,” said Garstang, quietly. “I would not have done such a thing, for the poor girl’s sake. It may be possible, just as likely as for your boy here, to try and win the girl and her fortune, but I swear solemnly that I have not helped him in any way.”

“Then you tell me as a man—as a gentleman, that you did not know he had got her away?”

“I tell you as a man, as a gentleman, that I did not know he had got her away. What is more, I tell you I do not believe it. Tell me more. How and when did she leave? When did you miss her?”

“Night before last—no, no, I mean the next morning after you had left. She had gone in the night.”

Garstang’s hand shot out, and he caught Wilton by the shoulder with a fierce grip, while his lip quivered and his face twitched, as he gazed at him with a face full of horror.

“James Wilton,” he said, in a husky voice, “you jump at this conclusion, but did anyone see them go?”

“No: no one.”

“You don’t think—”

“Think what, man? What has come to you?”

“She was in terrible trouble, suffering and hysterical, when she went up to her room,” continued Garstang, with his voice sinking almost to a whisper, and with as fine a piece of acting as could have been seen off the stage. “Is it possible that, in her trouble and despair, she left the house, and—”

He ceased speaking, and stood with his lips apart, staring at his visitor, who changed colour and rapidly calmed down.

“No, no,” he said, and stopped to dear his voice. “Impossible! Absurd! I know what you mean; but no, no. A young girl wouldn’t go and do that just because her cousin kissed her.”

“But she has been ill, and she was very weak and sensitive.”

“Oh, yes, and the doctor put her right. No, no. She wouldn’t do that,” said Wilton, hastily. “It’s as I say. Come, Claud, my lad, we can do no good here, it seems. Let’s be moving. Morning, John Garstang; I am going to get help. I mean to run her down.”

“You should know her best, James Wilton, and perhaps my judgment has been too hasty. Yes, I think I agree with you: so sweet, pure-minded, and well-balanced a girl would never seek refuge in so horrible a way. We may learn that she is with some distant relative after all.”

“Perhaps so,” said Wilton hastily. “Come, Claud, my lad,” and he walked straight out, without glancing to right or left, and remained silent till they were crossing Russell Square.

“I say, guv’nor,” said Claud, who passed his tongue over his lips before speaking, as if they were dry, “you don’t think that, do you? It’s what the mater said.”

“No, no, impossible. Of course not. She couldn’t. I think, though, we may as well get back,” and for the moment he forgot all about the ladder planted against the sill.

And as they walked on they were profoundly unconscious of the fact that Garstang’s grave elderly clerk was following them at a little distance, and looking in every other direction, his employer having hurried him out with the words:

“See where they go.”

John Garstang then seated himself before the good fire in his private room, and began to think of the interview he had just had, while as he thought he smiled.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Kate gave way most unwillingly, but felt obliged to yield to what she felt was a common-sense view of the question.

“If you write now we shall be having endless trouble,” said Garstang. “Your uncle will come here, and I shall be compelled to give you up.”

“But I would refuse to go,” said Kate, with spirit.

Garstang smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Will you give me credit, as an old lawyer, my dear child, for knowing a little of the law?”

“Of course,” she cried.

“Well, let me tell you that if James Wilton finds out where you are, I foresee endless troubles. You know his projects?”

Kate nodded quickly.

“To compass those plans, he will stop at nothing, even force. But supposing I defeat him in that, for I tell you frankly I should make every effort, he would set the law to work. If I get the best counsel I can, we shall have a long, wearisome lawsuit, and probably your late father’s estate will be thrown into Chancery. You will become a ward of the Lord Chancellor, and the inroads made upon your fortune will be frightful.”

“I don’t think I should care,” said Kate, looking at him wistfully, “so long as I could be at peace.”

“Have you thought out any relative or friend whom you feel that you can trust, and to whom you would like to go?”

“No; not yet,” said Kate, wearily; “and I have tried very hard.”

“Then don’t try, my child,” he said, with a smile, “and then perhaps the idea will come. I ought to say, though,” he added, playfully, “do try hard, so as not to succeed, for I do not want you to go. It is as if a change had come over my life, and like the man in one of the old plays, I had discovered a long-lost child.”

“Pray don’t treat it lightly, Mr Garstang,” said Kate. “All this troubles me terribly. I feel so helpless.”

“Believe me that if I talk lightly, I think very, very seriously of your position,” said Garstang, quickly. “I know how painful it must be for you to neglect your friends, those to whom you would write, but really I am obliged to advocate reticence for the present. I will have your letters posted if you desire me to, but I am bound to show you the consequences which must follow.”

Kate sighed, and looked more and more troubled.

“To put it more plainly,” continued Garstang, “my position is that I have an extensive practice, with many clients to see, and consequently I must be a great deal away. Now suppose one morning, when I am out, James Wilton and his son present themselves. What will you do?”

Kate shivered, and gazed at him helplessly.

“I shall not feel best pleased to come back home to dinner, and find you gone.”

“My position is terrible,” said Kate. “I almost wish I were penniless.”

“Come, come, not so terrible; it is only that of a prisoner who has her cell door barred inside, so that she can open it when she pleases. May I try and advise you a little?”

“Yes, pray, pray do, Mr Garstang.”

“Well, my advice is this—even if it causes your poor old nurse great anxiety. She will be content later on, when she learns that it was for your benefit. My advice is for you to try and settle down here for a while, so as to see how matters shape themselves, or till you have decided where it would be better for you to go.”

She looked at him wistfully.

“Could I not take apartments somewhere, and have Eliza up to keep house for me?”

“Well—yes,” he said, thoughtfully. “It would be risky, for every movement of your old servant will be jealously watched just now. It would be better later on. What do you think?”

“That I do not wish to seem ungrateful for your kindness, neither do I feel justified in putting you to great trouble and expense.”

“Pooh, pooh,” he said, merrily, “I am not so poor that I can not afford myself a few pleasures. But proper pride is a fine thing. There, you shall be independent, and pay me back everything when you come of age.”

He glanced at his watch, for breakfast had been over some time, and they had sat talking.

“I am keeping you, Mr Garstang,” she said.

“Well, I like to be kept, but I have several appointments to-day. Have a good quiet think while I am gone, and we will talk it over again to-night.”

“No,” said Kate, quietly, “you will be tired then. I will take your advice, Mr Garstang.”

“Yes?” he said, raising his eyebrows a little.

“I will stay here for a time, where, as you say, I can be at rest and safe from intrusion. We will see what time brings forth.”

“Spoken like a thoughtful, wise little woman,” said Garstang, without the slightest display of elation. “By the way, you find plenty of books to read?”

“Oh, yes, and I have been studying the old china.”

“A very interesting subject; but music—you are fond of music. We must see about that.”

He nodded and smiled, and then she saw that he became very calm and thoughtful, as if immersed in his business affairs.

Once more she was quite alone, thinking that she had been a whole week in the solemn old house, and a few minutes later the housekeeper entered to clear away the breakfast things.

“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?” said the woman sadly, when she had finished her task, Kate noticing the while that there was an occasional whisper outside the door, as the various articles were handed out.

“No, I think not, this morning, Sarah,” said Kate, with a smile which proved infectious, for the woman stood staring at her for a few moments as if in wonder, and then her own countenance relaxed stiffly, as if she had not smiled in years, till her face looked nearly cheerful.

“You are handsome, ma’am,” she said; “I haven’t seen you look like that before since you’ve been here.”

“Why does not Becky come in to help you to clear away?” said Kate, to change the conversation, and Sarah Plant’s face grew stern and withered again, as she shook her head.

“She’s such a sight, ma’am, with that handkercher round her head.”

“I should not mind that; I have not fairly seen her since I came.”

“No, ma’am, and you won’t if she can help it. You mayn’t mind, but she do. She always hides herself when anybody’s about. Poor girl, she’s been in trouble almost ever since she was born. There’s sure to be something in this life. Not as I complains of master. It was just the same with old master, and when he died it made Becky ever so much worse. You see, ma’am, old master’s wife was ill for a long time, and that made the house dull and quiet; and then she died, and old master was never the same again. He spent scores o’ thousands o’ pounds on furniture, and books, and china, and did everything he could to make the place nice, but he never held up his head again. And then somehow his money went wrong, and new master used to come to help him out of his troubles, but it was no use; old master never had the blinds pulled up again; and that made Becky and me different to most folk, for it used to be like being shut up in a cupboard, and we never hardly went out. Becky ain’t been out of the house for years, and years, and years.”

“We must make the house more cheerful now, Sarah.”

The woman looked at her in astonishment, and then shook her head.

“Well, ma’am, I will say that it has seemed different since you came; but no—it’s beautifully furnished, and I never see a better kitchen in my life—but make it cheerful? No, ma’am, it ain’t to be done.”

“We shall see,” said Kate, smiling, and the woman’s face relaxed once more as she gazed at the fair, intellectual countenance before her as if it were some beautiful object which gave her real pleasure; but as Kate’s smile died away her own features looked cloudy, and she shook her head.

“No, ma’am, it’s my belief as this was meant to be a dull house before the big trouble came. Me and Becky used to say to one another it was just as if the sun had gone out, but we never expected what came at last, or I believe we should have run away.”

The moment before Kate had been thinking of dismissing the housekeeper to her work, but this hint at something which had happened enchained her attention, and the woman went on.

“You see, old master kept on getting from bad to worse, spite of Mr Garstang’s coming and seeing to his affairs; and one day the doctor says to me: ‘It’s of no use, Mrs Plant, I can do nothing for a man who shuts himself up and sets all the laws of nature at defiance.’ Those were his very words, ma’am; I recollected them because I never quite knew what they meant; but the doctor evidently thought master had done something wrong, though I don’t think he ever did, for he was such a good man. Then came that morning, ma’am. I may as well tell you now. Becky used to sleep with me then, same as she does now, but that was before she had face-ache and fits. I remember it as well as can be. It was just at daylight in autumn time, when the men brings round the ropes of onions, and I nudged her, and I says, ‘Time to get up, Becky,’ and she yawned and got up and went down, for she always dressed quicker than I could. And there I was, dressing, and thinking that master had told me that Mr Garstang was coming at ten o’clock, and I was to send him into the library at once, and breakfast was to be ready there.

“I’d just put on my cap, ma’am, and was going down, when I heard the horridest shriek as ever was, and sank down in a chair trembling, for I felt as sure as sure that burglars were in the house, and they were murdering my poor Becky. I was that frightened I got up and tottered to the door, and locked and bolted it, for I said they shouldn’t murder me. But, oh, dear; what I did suffer! ‘Pretty sort of a mother you are,’ I says to myself, ‘taking care of yourself, and letting poor Becky be cut to pieces p’raps to hide their crime.’

“That went to my heart like a knife, ma’am, and I unfastened the door again and went out and listened, and all was still as still. You know how quiet it can be in this house, ma’am, don’t you?”

Kate nodded.

“So I stood trembling there at the very top of the house, for we used to sleep up there, then, before Becky took to wanting to be downstairs, where she wasn’t so likely to be seen; and though I listened and I listened, there wasn’t a sound, and I give it to myself again. ‘Why,’ I says, ‘a cat would scratch if you tried to take away its kitten to drown it’—as well I know, ma’am, for I’ve tried—‘and you stand there doing nothing about your own poor girl.’ That roused me, ma’am, and I went down, with the staircase all gloomy, with the light coming only from the sooty skylight in the roof; and there were the china cupboards and the statues in the dark corners all seeming to look down at something on the first floor. I was ready to drop a dozen times over, but I felt that I must go, even if I died for it; and down I went, step by step, peeping before me, and ready to shriek for help directly I saw what it was.

“But there was nothing that I could see, and I stopped on the first floor, looking over the banisters and trying to make out whether the hall door was open; but no, I couldn’t see anything, and I went along sideways, looking down still, till I saw that the dining-room door was open, and it seemed to me that the shrieking must have come from there. I was just opposite to the door leading into the two little lib’ries—you know, ma’am, where the big curtain is—and I was taking another step sideways, meaning to look a little more over and then go and call up master, who didn’t seem to have heard, when I caught my foot on something, and cried out and fell. And then I found it was poor Becky, who had just crawled out of the doorway on her hands and knees.

“For just a minute I couldn’t say a word, but when I did, and asked her what was the matter, she only knelt there, clinging to my gownd, and staring up at me with a face that was horrible to behold.

“‘What is it—what is it?’ I kept on saying, but she couldn’t speak, only kneel there, staring at me till I took her by the shoulders and shook her well. ‘Why don’t you speak?’ I says. ‘What is it?’

“She only said ‘Oh’—a regular groan it was, and she turned her head slowly round to look back at the little lib’ry passage, and then she turned back and hid her face in my petticoats.

“‘Tell me what it is, Becky,’ I says, more gently, for it didn’t seem that any harm was coming to us, but she couldn’t speak, only point behind her toward the little lib’ry door, and this made me shiver, for I knew there must be something dreadful there. At last, though, for fear she should think I was a coward, I tried to get away from her, but she clung to me that tight that I couldn’t get my gownd clear for ever so long. But at last I did, and I went into the little lobby through the door; but there was nothing there, and the lib’ry door was shut close; and I was coming back when I felt Becky seize me by the arm and point again, and then I saw what I hadn’t seen before; there were footmarks on the carpet fresh made, and I saw that Becky must have made ’em when she had gone to the lib’ry door; and there was the reason for it, just seen by the light which came from the little skylight—there it was, stealing slowly under the bottom of the mat.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Kate Wilton looked at the woman in horror.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sarah continued, “there it was, and when I opened the door I could only get it a little way, for something was just inside, and as I stood there trembling, there came out a nasty wet smell of gunpowder, just as if water had been upset on the hob.

“I didn’t want any telling, ma’am; I knew, and poor Becky knew, that master had shot himself with something and was lying there.

“I waited for just about a minute, ma’am, for my senses seemed to be quite gone, and I was as bad as poor Becky; but I got to be a little sensible soon, and began to feel that I must do something. I called to Becky to come and help me, but it was no use; she was just as if she was stunned, and could only stare at me, shivering all the while. So I felt that I must do what there was to do myself, and I went back to the door, and pushed and pushed till I could just squeeze myself through the narrow slit I made; and then I dursen’t look round, but stood with my back to it for ever so long before I could feel that he might be alive, and that I ought to go for the doctor.

“I looked round then, feeling as I turned that I should be obliged to shriek out, but I didn’t. Poor master, he was lying on his side, with his hand under his head, just quiet and calm, as if he had only gone to sleep. It made me wonder what I had been frightened at, and I went down on one knee and took the hand which was by his side, touching a pistol.”

“Yes?” said Kate, breathlessly, for the woman paused.

“Yes, ma’am, it was quite cold. He must have shot himself early in the night, and I knew it was no good to go to fetch a doctor then. Leastwise I think that’s what I felt, for I didn’t go, but crept out very softly and shut the door; and then I took hold of poor Becky’s arm and led her down to the kitchen, where she went off into a dead faint, and came to, and fainted over again—fit after fit, so that I was busy for hours and didn’t know how time went, till all at once there was a double knock at the door, which I knew was Mr Garstang come.

“I went up and let him in, and he looked at me so strange.

“‘What is it?’ he said; ‘your master?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ I says, ‘and I was to show you in as soon as you came.’

“He nodded, and went up at once, neither of us saying another word. Then he went in through the door gently, and came out again, looking horribly shocked.

“‘When did you find him?’ he says; and I told him. ‘Poor fellow!’ he says, ‘I am not surprised. Sarah Plant, you must go and tell the police;’ and I did, and there was an inquest, and at last the poor old master was to be buried, with only Mr Garstang to follow him, for he had no relations or friends.

“I sat in my bit of noo black, and Becky just opposite me, waiting while they’d gone to the cemetery, for no one asked me to go, and I sat there looking at Becky, who began crying as she heard them carrying the coffin downstairs and never stopped all that time. And I thought to myself, ‘We two will have to go out into the world, and nobody won’t take us with poor Becky like that;’ and my heart was so full, miss—ma’am, that I began to cry, too; but I’m afraid it was for myself, not for poor master. Last of all, the carriage came back, and I let Mr Garstang in, looking terribly cut up.

“‘Bring me a little tea, Sarah,’ he says, and I went and got it, and had a cup, too, wanting it as I did badly, and by-and-by he rung for me to fetch the tray.

“I got to the door with it, when he calls me back.

“‘Sarah,’ he says, ‘your poor master has no relations left, and by the papers I hold, everything comes to me.’

“‘Yes, sir; so I s’posed,’ I says to him, ‘and you want me and Becky to go at once.’

“He looked at me with that nice soft smile of his, and he says, ‘Why should you think that? No,’ he says, ‘I want everything to stay just as it is; I won’t have a thing moved, and I should be very glad if you and Becky would stay and keep the house for me.’

“I couldn’t answer him, ma’am, for I was crying bitterly; but I knew him, what a good man he was, and that me and Becky had found a friend. Seven years ago, ma’am, and never an unkind word from him when he came, which wasn’t often. He only told me not to gossip about the place, and I said I wouldn’t, and never did till I talked to you, ma’am, and as for poor Becky, she never speaks to no one. Perhaps, ma’am, you’d like to come upstairs, and see the marks.”

“See the marks?” stammered Kate.

“Yes, ma’am, where old master lay. You’ve never been in the little lib’ry, but if you like I’ll show you now. There’s only a little rug to move, and there it is, quite plain.”

“No, no, I do not wish to see,” said Kate, shuddering. “So there has been a terrible tragedy here?”

“Yes, ma’am, and that’s what makes the place so dull and still. I often fancy I can see poor old master gliding about the staircase and passages; but it’s all fancy, of course.”

“All fancy, of course,” said Kate, softly. “But it is very terrible for such a thing to have happened here.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s what I often think; and there’s been times when I’m low-spirited; and you know there are times when one does get like that Becky’s enough to make anyone dumpy, at the best of times, ’specially towards night, when she’s sitting there with her face tied up and her eyes staring and looking toward the door, as if she fancied she was going to see master come in; for she will believe in ghosts, and it’s no use to try to stop her. Ah, she’s a great trial, ma’am.”

“Poor girl!” said Kate.

“Thankye, ma’am. It’s very good of you to say so,” sighed the woman; “and it is nice to have a lady here to talk to. It’s quite altered the place. There have been times, and many of them, when I felt that I must take poor Becky away and get another situation, but it would be ungrateful to new master, who’s a dear good man, and never an unkind word since with him I’ve been. It isn’t everyone who’d keep a servant with a girl like Becky about the house. But he never seems to mind, being a busy man, and I s’pose he must see that the only way in which Becky’s happy is in cleaning and polishing things. I believe if she woke up in the middle of the night and remembered that she hadn’t dusted something she’d want to get up and do it; and she would, too, if she dared. But go about the house in the middle of the night without me, ma’am? No; wild horses wouldn’t drag her.”

Sarah Plant ceased speaking, for she suddenly woke to the fact that Kate was gazing at the fire, with her thoughts evidently far away; and the woman stole softly from the room. But as the door clicked faintly Kate started and looked about her, half disposed to call her back, for the narrative she had heard made her position seem terribly lonely.

She restrained herself, though, and sat trying to think and turn the current of her thoughts, telling herself that she had no cause for anxiety save on Eliza’s account. For Garstang could not have been more fatherly and considerate to her. His words, too, were wise and right. To let her uncle know where she was must result in scenes that would be stormy and violent; and she determined at last to let herself be guided entirely by her self-constituted guardian.

“Yes, he is right. He is all that is kind and fatherly in his way, and I, too, should be ungrateful if I murmured against my position. It will not be for long. In less than two years I shall be of age, and fully my own mistress.”

She paused to think, for a doubt arose.

Would she be her own mistress? She had heard her father’s will read, but it was at a time when she was distracted with grief, and save that she grasped that she was heiress to a large fortune, which was to remain invested in her father’s old bank, she knew comparatively nothing as to the control her uncle possessed. Yes; she recalled that he was sole executor and guardian until she married.

“And I shall never marry,” she sighed; but as the words were breathed, scenes at the old Manor came back; the pleasant little intimacy with Jenny Leigh, her praise of her brother, and that brother’s manly, kindly attentions to his patient, his skill having achieved so much in bringing her back to health.

Yes, he had always been the attentive, courteous physician, and neither word nor look had intimated that he was anything else; but these things are a mystery beyond human control, and as Kate Wilton sat and thought, it was with Pierce Leigh present with her in spirit, and she felt startled; for the tell-tale blood was mantling her cheeks, and she hurriedly rose to do something to change the current of her thoughts.

“Poor Mr Garstang,” she said, softly; “he shall not find me ungrateful. He, too, has suffered. If he had had a daughter like this!”

She recalled his words, evidently not intended for her ears. Wifeless—childless—wealthy, and yet solitary.

Her heart warmed towards him, and she was ready to call herself selfish for intruding her wishes upon one whose sole thought seemed to be to protect her and make her life peaceful.

“He shall not find me selfish,” she said to herself, “and I will be guided by him and do what he thinks right.”

She went out into the solemn-looking hall and began to ascend the great staircase, taking a fresh interest in the place, which seemed now as if it would be her home perhaps for months. The pictures and statues interested her, and she paused before a cabinet of curious old china, partly to try and admire, partly to think of how ignorant she was of all these matters, and a few minutes after, found herself close to the heavy curtain, beyond which was the door leading into the little library.

A strange thrill ran through her, and she turned to hurry into her own room, with her cheeks growing pale. But the blood flowed back, and with a feeling of self-contempt she walked straight to the curtain, drew it aside, passed through an archway, and turned the handle of a door. This opened upon a passage, whose walls were covered with venerable looking books, a dim skylight above showing the faded leather and worn gilding upon their backs. There was another door at the end, and as the woman’s narrative forced itself back to her attention there was a fresh thrill which chilled her; but she went on firmly, opened the door, and passed through to find herself in the first of two rooms connected by a broad opening dimly lit by a stained-glass window, and completely covered with books, all old and evidently treasures of a collector.

Once more she shuddered, for she was standing upon one of several small Persian rugs dotted about the dark polished floor, and from the woman’s description she knew that she must be where the former owner of the house had lain dead.

But the sensation of dread was momentary, and the warm flush of life came back to her cheeks as she said softly:

“What is there to fear?” and then found herself repeating:

“‘There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death.’

“Oh, father—father!” she moaned softly; “but I am so lonely without you;” and she sank into a chair, to weep bitterly.

The tears brought relief and firmness, and drying her eyes, she went slowly from room to room, thinking of him who had once trod those boards—a sad and solitary man.

Somehow her thoughts brought her back to Garstang, who seemed so noble and chivalrous in his conduct to her, and how that he, too, was a sad and solitary man, for she had heard in the past that his marriage had proved unhappy.

A few minutes later, when she let the curtain drop behind her, and stood once more on the staircase, a change had come over her, and in spite of the slight redness and moisture remaining in her eyes, she looked brighter and more at rest, till she caught a glimpse of a strangely wild pair of staring eyes gazing at her from one of the dark doorways in horror and wonder, till their owner grasped the fact that she was observed, and fled.

“Poor Becky!” thought Kate, as she smiled sadly? “I must try and make friends with her now.”

Chapter Thirty.