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diff --git a/76981-0.txt b/76981-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07dd852 --- /dev/null +++ b/76981-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9909 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76981 *** + + + + + + EAGLE SERIES No. 550 + SAVED FROM HERSELF + BY + ADELAIDE STIRLING + + [Illustration] + + STREET & SMITH ~ PUBLISHERS ~ NEW YORK + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER I. THE THEATER. + CHAPTER II. “A PENNILESS ADVENTURESS.” + CHAPTER III. THE ROSE-COLORED ROOM. + CHAPTER IV. “THE MYSTERY.” + CHAPTER V. A LUCKY CAST. + CHAPTER VI. A DREAM OF SAFETY. + CHAPTER VII. THREEFOLD DANGER. + CHAPTER VIII. THE LUCK OF MARCUS WRAY. + CHAPTER IX. “I WILL POSSESS HIM OR DIE.” + CHAPTER X. A KISS. + CHAPTER XI. A NET FOR HER FEET. + CHAPTER XII. “IF I ASK YOU?” + CHAPTER XIII. HER HOUR OF TRIUMPH. + CHAPTER XIV. MORE TREACHERY. + CHAPTER XV. COILED TO SPRING. + CHAPTER XVI. CIRCE’S EYES. + CHAPTER XVII. THE SPINET. + CHAPTER XVIII. “AT MIDNIGHT.” + CHAPTER XIX. AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN. + CHAPTER XX. THE EDGE OF DOOM. + CHAPTER XXI. THE DOG IN THE MANGER. + CHAPTER XXII. “A CHARMING MAN.” + CHAPTER XXIII. A GHOSTLY EAVESDROPPER. + CHAPTER XXIV. “I NEVER SAW IT BEFORE.” + CHAPTER XXV. THE GRATITUDE OF CRISTIANE. + CHAPTER XXVI. “HER MOTHER’S CHILD!” + CHAPTER XXVII. TRUTH THAT LIED! + CHAPTER XXVIII. “MY NAME IS YESTERDAY.” + CHAPTER XXIX. A NIGHT’S WORK. + CHAPTER XXX. INTO THE LION’S MOUTH. + CHAPTER XXXI. “SAVE ME FROM MYSELF!” + CHAPTER XXXII. “THE DEED IN THE DARK.” + CHAPTER XXXIII. “HEAVENLY TRUE.” + CHAPTER XXXIV. “AND WHO IS THIS?” + CHAPTER XXXV. THE DIAMONDS. + + + + + The Eagle Series + OF POPULAR FICTION + + Principally Copyrights. Elegant Colored Covers + + PUBLISHED EVERY WEEK + + +This is the pioneer line of copyright novels. Its popularity has +increased with every number, until, at the present time, it stands +unrivaled as regards sales and contents. + +It is composed, mainly, of popular copyrighted titles which cannot be +had in any other lines at any price. The authors, as far as literary +ability and reputation are concerned, represent the foremost men and +women of their time. The books, without exception, are of entrancing +interest, and manifestly those most desired by the American reading +public. A purchase of two or three of these books at random, will make +you a firm believer that there is no line of novels which can compare +favorably with the EAGLE SERIES. + + +To be issued during December. + + 553--Queen Kate By Charles Garvice + 552--At the Court of the Maharaja By Louis Tracy + 551--Pity--not Love By Laura Jean Libbey + 550--Saved From Herself By Adelaide Stirling + 549--Tempted By Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + + +To be issued during November. + + 548--’Twas Love’s Fault By Charles Garvice + 547--A Plunge Into the Unknown By Richard Marsh + 546--The Career of Mrs. Osborne By Helen Milecete + 545--Well Worth Winning By St. George Rathborne + + +To be issued during October. + + 544--In Love’s Name By Emma Garrison Jones + 543--The Veiled Bride By Laura Jean Libbey + 542--Once in a Life By Charles Garvice + 541--Her Evil Genius By Adelaide Stirling + 540--A Daughter of Darkness By T. W. Hanshew + + +To be issued during September. + + 539--A Heart’s Triumph By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 538--The Fighting Chance By Gertrude Lynch + 537--A Life’s Mistake By Charles Garvice + 536--Companions in Arms By St. George Rathborne + + +To be issued during August. + + 535--The Trifler By Archibald Eyre + 534--Lotta, The Cloak Model By Laura Jean Libbey + 533--A Forgotten Love By Adelaide Stirling + 532--True To His Bride By Emma Garrison Jones + + +To be issued during July. + + 531--Better Than Life By Charles Garvice + 530--The Wiles of a Siren By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 529--Hearts Aflame By Louise Winter + 528--Adela’s Ordeal By Florence Warden + 527--For Love and Glory By St. George Rathborne + + * * * * * + + 526--Love and Hate By Morley Roberts + 525--Sweet Kitty Clover By Laura Jean Libbey + 524--A Sacrifice of Pride By Mrs. Louisa Parr + 523--A Banker of Bankersville By Maurice Thompson + 522--A Spurned Proposal By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 521--The Witch from India By St. George Rathborne + 520--The Heatherford Fortune By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + Sequel to “The Magic Cameo.” + 519--The Magic Cameo By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + 518--The Secret of a Letter By Gertrude Warden + 517--They Looked and Loved By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller + 516--Florabel’s Lover By Laura Jean Libbey + 515--Tiny Luttrell By E. W. Hornung + (Author of “Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman.”) + 514--The Temptation of Mary Barr By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 513--A Sensational Case By Florence Warden + 512--A Heritage of Love By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + Sequel to “The Golden Key.” + 511--The Golden Key By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + 510--Doctor Jack’s Paradise Mine By St. George Rathborne + 509--A Penniless Princess By Emma Garrison Jones + 508--The King of Honey Island By Maurice Thompson + 507--A Mad Betrothal By Laura Jean Libbey + 506--A Secret Foe By Gertrude Warden + 505--Selina’s Love-story By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 504--Evelyn, the Actress By Wenona Gilman + 503--A Lady in Black By Florence Warden + 502--Fair Maid Marian By Mrs. Emma Garrison Jones + 501--Her Husband’s Secret By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller + 500--Love and Spite By Adelaide Stirling + 499--My Lady Cinderella By Mrs. C. N. Williamson + 498--Andrew Leicester’s Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 497--A Chase for Love By Seward W. Hopkins + 496--The Missing Heiress By C. H. Montague + 495--An Excellent Story By May Agnes Fleming + 494--Voyagers of Fortune By St. George Rathborne + 493--The Girl He Loved By Adelaide Stirling + 492--A Speedy Wooing By the Author of “As Common Mortals” + 491--My Lady of Dreadwood By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 490--The Price of Jealousy By Maud Howe + 489--Lucy Harding By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes + 488--The French Witch By Gertrude Warden + 487--A Wonderful Woman By May Agnes Fleming + 486--Divided Lives By Edgar Fawcett + 485--The End Crowns All By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 484--The Whistle of Fate By Richard Marsh + 483--Miss Marston’s Heart By L. H. Bickford + 482--A Little Worldling By L. C. Ellsworth + 481--Wedded, Yet No Wife By May Agnes Fleming + 480--A Perfect Fool By Florence Warden + 479--Mysterious Mr. Sabin By E. Phillips Oppenheim + 478--For Love of Sigrid By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 477--The Siberian Exiles By Col. Thomas Knox + 476--Earle Wayne’s Nobility By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + 475--Love Before Pride By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 474--The Belle of the Season By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 473--A Sacrifice To Love By Adelaide Stirling + 472--Dr. Jack and Company By St. George Rathborne + 471--A Shadowed Happiness By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 470--A Strange Wedding By Mary Hartwell Catherwood + 469--A Soldier and a Gentleman By J. M. Cobban + 468--The Wooing of a Fairy By Gertrude Warden + 467--Zina’s Awaking By Mrs. J. K. Spender + 466--Love, the Victor By a Popular Southern Author + 465--Outside Her Eden By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 464--The Old Life’s Shadows By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 463--A Wife’s Triumph By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 462--A Stormy Wedding By Mary E. Bryan + 461--Above All Things By Adelaide Stirling + 460--Dr. Jack’s Talisman By St. George Rathborne + 459--A Golden Mask By Charlotte M. Stanley + 458--When Love Meets Love By Charles Garvice + 457--Adrift in the World By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 456--A Vixen’s Treachery By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 455--Love’s Greatest Gift By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 454--Love’s Probation By Elizabeth Olmis + 453--A Poor Girl’s Passion By Gertrude Warden + 452--The Last of the Van Slacks By Edward S. Van Zile + 451--Helen’s Triumph By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + 450--Rosamond’s Love By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 449--The Bailiff’s Scheme By Mrs. Harriet Lewis + 448--When Love Dawns By Adelaide Stirling + 447--A Favorite of Fortune By St. George Rathborne + 446--Bound with Love’s Fetters By Mary Grace Halpine + 445--An Angel of Evil By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 444--Love’s Trials By Alfred R. Calhoun + 443--In Spite of Proof By Gertrude Warden + 442--Love Before Duty By Mrs. L. T. Meade + 441--A Princess of the Stage By Nataly von Eschstruth + 440--Edna’s Secret Marriage By Charles Garvice + 439--Little Nan By Mary A. Denison + 438--So Like a Man By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 437--The Breach of Custom By Mrs. D. M. Lowrey + 436--The Rival Toreadors By St. George Rathborne + 435--Under Oath By Jean Kate Ludlum + 434--The Guardian’s Trust By Mary A. Denison + 433--Winifred’s Sacrifice By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon + 432--Breta’s Double By Helen V. Greyson + 431--Her Husband and Her Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands + 430--The Honor of a Heart By Mary J. Safford + 429--A Fair Fraud By Emily Lovett Cameron + 428--A Tramp’s Daughter By Hazel Wood + 427--A Wizard of the Moors By St. George Rathborne + 426--The Bride of the Tomb and Queenie’s Terrible Secret + By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller + 425--A College Widow By Frank H. Howe + + + + + SAVED FROM HERSELF; + + OR, + + ON THE EDGE OF DOOM + + BY + ADELAIDE STIRLING + + AUTHOR OF + + “A Forgotten Love,” “Nerine’s Second Choice,” “A Sacrifice to Love,” + “Her Evil Genius,” “Above All Things,” “The Girl He Loved,” + “Love and Spite,” “When Love Dawns.” All published + exclusively in the EAGLE SERIES. + + [Illustration: S AND S NOVELS, STREET & SMITH, NEW YORK] + + NEW YORK + STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS + 79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE + + + + + Copyright, 1898 and 1899 + By STREET & SMITH + + Saved from Herself + + All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign + languages, including the Scandinavian. + + + + +SAVED FROM HERSELF + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE THEATER. + + +“I don’t see,” said Mrs. Trelane discontentedly, “why the woman could +not have kept you.” + +She spoke to her own reflection in the glass with an angry frown. What +was the good of an exquisite toilet, of a face that did not look within +ten years of its age, when seated on the sofa opposite was a grown-up +daughter whose presence in the house might spoil all her own well-laid +plans? + +Just a week ago her only child, aged seventeen, had been returned from +her cheap boarding-school with a scathing note from the principal +regarding her unpaid bills. It was unbearable, even though she had +forbidden the girl to be about the house or meet any of her visitors. + +To-night, when the table was laid for a party of two, the presence of a +third was--impossible! + +“Ismay,” Mrs. Trelane turned sharply to the tall, slim figure coiled on +the sofa, “couldn’t you take a maid and go out somewhere to-night? Oh, +no--I can’t spare you! Well, mind you don’t let Abbotsford see you--he +doesn’t know you are, you know!” + +The girl looked with somber impatience at her mother in her satin gown, +so great a contrast to her own shabby black serge. + +“All right,” she said quietly, “but if he keeps coming here every day +he is bound to find out my existence.” + +“It won’t matter--by and by.” Mrs. Trelane gave a little conscious +laugh and poured some peach-blossom scent on her handkerchief. Ismay, +as the delicate odor reached her, moved her head as if it sickened her. +Three years away from a mother who had never loved her had deadened +the memory of the regret, the loneliness, that had been her portion +always. But to-night she saw very clearly that she was, as always, a +stone in the road of Mrs. Trelane’s life. + +She got up, with a leisurely grace, and looked about her as the +door-bell rang and Mrs. Trelane swished softly out of the room. She +was used to being unpopular; at school no one had liked her, but yet +indifference from her mother cut her. + +And it was dull, deadly dull! There was nothing to read, nowhere to sit +but this disordered bedroom that smelled to nausea of almonds. + +A neat maid with a cross face came in at that moment and bumped down +an uninviting tray of tea and bread and butter on a table, with +an impertinence that was somehow galling. Ismay Trelane looked at +it, and a sudden light sprang into her strangely lovely face, that +was sometimes so much older than her years, as a smile came to her +delicate, thin lips. + +“There isn’t any room for me in mama’s life,” she thought quietly, +“it’s all taken up with Lord Abbotsford! She can’t surely think he +means to marry her, yet she never kept up the mask like this for any of +her other admirers.” + +Looking back with ungirlish wisdom into the past before she had been +shoved into Mrs. Barlow’s school, she added: + +“Well, it doesn’t matter! I’m not a child any more; I can amuse myself.” + +She felt in the pocket of her old black frock, that was too short, for +all the money she owned--ten shillings her mother had given her in a +moment of generosity. + +“She said to keep out of the way,” she reflected, “and I will. But I +won’t sit here all the evening, and I won’t”--pride getting the better +of hunger--“drink any of that horrid tea.” + +She slipped on her sailor-hat and jacket, a garment that had been +barely decent all summer, but was threadbare now, and with noiseless +haste made her way down-stairs and out into the street. + +The fresh, cool air did her good, and she walked quickly out of the +quiet Brompton Square into the bustling thoroughfare of the Brompton +Road. + +London at night was strange to her, and she was not even sure what she +wanted to do. + +“I’m out, though, and that’s the main thing,” she thought cheerfully. +“I think I’ll go for a drive on an omnibus! Then when I feel like it I +can get off and have something to eat somewhere.” + +She felt almost gay as she hailed the first bus that came thundering +by, and climbed to the roof of the unwieldy thing. + +How pretty it was! The long street like a shifting ribbon of light, +with its never-ending stream of carriage-lamps; its procession of +hansoms and carriages full of people--men chiefly--in evening dress. + +“Where do you go?” she asked the conductor as she paid her fare. + +“Piccadilly Circus, miss; Shaftesbury Avenue, past the Palace Theater.” + +“Theater!” + +Ismay’s heart gave a jump. Why not go to a theater? There was time; it +could not be more than half-past eight. After that she could take a cab +and go home. It was three years since she had been at a theater; but +she knew the Palace was a variety place, where it did not matter what +time you arrived. + +The November air was cold on top of the omnibus, but the girl’s blood +was warm, as she watched the surging panorama of the streets. This was +life; the shifting crowd went to her head like wine; her eyes burned +like stars as she looked about her at the never-ending drama of London. + +“Palace Theater, miss.” The conductor’s voice startled her. He helped +her down with a curious feeling that she was too young to be out alone. +But he was reassured as he saw her move composedly under the lighted +awning to the flaring entrance, where the lights shone red in the +box-office. She was older than she looked, he decided, as he signaled +the driver to go on. + +Ismay, as the swinging doors closed behind her, stood undecided for a +minute. There was a notice facing her: + +“Stalls, ten shillings. Dress-circle, seven and sixpence. Upper circle, +five shillings.” + +Stalls were out of the question. + +“One dress-circle,” she said composedly, making her way to the +ticket-seller’s window through the groups of men idling in the entrance. + +Most of them looked at her curiously; her strange beauty and her shabby +black clothes contrasted oddly. + +She read their thoughts as she turned with her ticket in her hand, and +her eyes glittered with pride under her long, dark lashes. + +Yet, as she followed the usher up the stairs to the dress-circle, she +walked as one in a dream, and stood for a moment in a sort of daze as +she was turned over to the white-capped attendant. + +The whole house was in darkness except for the lights upon the stage +and the constant glimmer of matches, for every one seemed to be +smoking, even many of the women in the boxes. + +Ismay stumbled to her seat still dazed. + +Was this a theater? Had she spend nearly all of her ten shillings for +this? + +Two badly painted women danced between the verses of a song, and their +antics seemed to amuse the crowd. + +Ismay drew her skirts away from the vicinity of a French hair-dresser +as she thought: + +“If that is all they have to do to earn their livings I could make +mine.” + +Then she started angrily. + +A common, flashily dressed man beside her had spoken to her. His tone +offended her, and she rose and swept past him like an insulted duchess. + +She walked up the steps to the third gallery, where men and women +were seated at small tables, eating olives and drinking liquor. As +she emerged into the bright light she stopped and leaned over the +balustrade with her beautiful eyes still glowing. + +“Beast!” she said under her breath, “to dare to speak to me!” + +A man standing quite near her glanced at her wonderingly, and as she +turned she found his eyes upon her. + +“I beg your pardon,” he said civilly, “but I could not help hearing +what you said.” + +Ismay Trelane lifted her strange eyes and saw a face that, dreaming or +waking, would haunt her to the end of her life. + +Bronzed, gray-eyed, clear-cut--it came near to being the handsomest +face in London. Many a woman had turned to look upon it, and some, like +Ismay, carried the remembrance forever. + +Something, she knew not what, made the girl tremble as she answered him. + +“A man spoke to me,” she said slowly. “You do not think he will come up +here, do you?” + +“I spoke to you, too,” her hearer’s voice was kind but a little puzzled. + +“You are different,” she said simply. “Oh,” with a little gasp, “he is +coming up!” + +“Stand by me and don’t look at him!” said the stranger authoritatively. + +Miss Trelane moved closer to him, as she was told, and the obnoxious +Frenchman, with a curious glance, passed by her. + +If she had looked up just then at her new friend she would have seen +that he was divided between wonder and--something else. Music-halls +were an old story to him, but this girl had apparently never been in +one. She looked so out of place, and yet--well, at all events, she was +beautiful! Though the beauty was not that of a young girl. This face +might have smiled on dead men out of Circe’s window, in strange lands +long ago. For the girl’s hair was an ashy flaxen without a hint of +gold; her skin was fine and milky white, and her lips so red as to be +startling in her colorless face. But it was her eyes more than anything +that were full of strange witchery, for they were as clear and dark a +green as the new shoots of a pine-tree in the spring. + +“Nonsense!” the man thought, “she is only some little milliner. But she +ought not to be here.” + +The girl looked up, as though she read his mind. + +“I don’t like it--here. I think I’ll go home,” she said slowly. + +“I think I would,” he returned, with a smile. “This is not a good place +to begin with when one has never been out alone before.” + +“How did you know I never was?” she asked sharply. + +“Oh, I thought so!” was the answer. “But if you do wish to go home you +had better let me take you down-stairs. It’s rather crowded, and--there +may be more Frenchmen!” + +“Home!” she looked at him queerly. “Oh, I can’t go home! It’s too--too +lonely.” Her lips quivered desolately at the thought of the long hours +before bedtime in that house where she was not wanted. + +As she looked at him the absolute beauty of his face struck her once +more. She had never spoken to a man like this; it had been a very +different sort of men she had been used to seeing in her childhood. How +immaculately dressed he was, and what lovely black pearls he wore as +shirt-studs. “I don’t think I’ll go home at all,” she ended abruptly. + +“Not go home?” He stared at her. “My dear child, you’re talking +nonsense. Do you mean that you live alone when you say it is too +lonely?” He felt suddenly sorry for her, and wondered afresh who she +was. Her dress was old and worn, fit for a servant out of place, but +her ungloved hand lying on the red velvet rail was exquisitely white +and smooth. + +As he looked at her she laughed, a little delicate laugh that was +somehow far older than her years. + +“Yes, of course,” she said, “utter nonsense; for I can live with my +mother.” + +She moved away as she spoke; even if the man was as good-looking as all +the gods, she would not stay talking with him after he had suggested +she should go. + +“Wait a moment, if you are lonely at home. I am lonely here,” he said, +and he was very tall as he looked down at her with a little laugh. + +“You--lonely!” her eyes darkened with surprise. “Why, you can go +anywhere you like in all London, you have not to sit alone evening +after evening till----” + +“No, but you see I don’t know anywhere I want to go,” he interrupted. +“And if we’re both here, and both lonely, why--I think we may as well +talk to one another.” + +They were moving slowly along the crowded promenade on their way to the +stairs, and the languid grace of the girl’s steps was apparent. + +“Are you tired?” he said suddenly. “You look pale.” + +“I’m always pale.” + +A swift intuition flashed over him. + +“I don’t think,” he observed deliberately, “that you have had any +dinner!” + +Miss Trelane flushed--exquisitely. + +The remembrance of the supper of bread and butter, which pride had made +her forego, was haunting her. She had eaten nothing since tea at five +o’clock. + +She raised her head haughtily, as a woman of the world would have +done, and caught a look on her companion’s face that made her suddenly +childlike again. + +“I--I didn’t wait,” she stammered. + +Her companion stopped at a vacant table, and put her into a chair. + +“Now that I think of it, I am hungry myself,” he observed, signaling to +a waiter, and then ordering sandwiches and some liquor. + +He sat looking at this waif from some other world as she ate the +sandwiches; the fiery cherry brandy made her less pale, the depths of +her strange eyes less somber. His first theory had been right: she +was very young. But the beautiful face was prophetic of tragedy and +passion; the scarlet lips cynical. She looked at him, raising slow +white lids, till he seemed to see unfathomable depths in her clear +green eyes. + +“Do you know you are the first person who has ever been kind to me in +all my life?” she said. “Tell me, why are you kind?” + +There was in her voice only calm inquiry, nothing to tell him that this +strange, pale girl was filled with passionate gratitude. + +“I’m not kind; it is a pleasure to sit and talk to you. You forget +that.” His manner was to the girl what it would have been to a duchess. +“But it’s getting late, and I’m going to take you home.” + +He raised his eyebrows a little as he sat by her in a hansom and heard +her give the man an address in Colbourne Square; it was not exactly a +haunt of poverty, and this girl was nearly out at elbows. + +“You live there with your mother?” he said involuntarily. + +She laughed with a curious mockery of mirth. + +“Yes, but you don’t know who I am, and I won’t tell you.” + +“Don’t you want to know who I am?” he asked, somewhat piqued. “My +name----” + +“Don’t tell me!” stopping him with a quick coldness. “I don’t want to +know. You have been kind to me--I’ll remember you by that best. No one +else ever was.” + +“I wonder,” he said abruptly, “if I will ever see you again.” + +“Do you wish to?” + +He nodded, and with a sudden flash of her spirit Ismay Trelane +determined to see him again if she had to tramp the world for a sight +of his face. + +“You won’t quite forget me, though you won’t let me tell you my name,” +he said more earnestly than he knew, for her strange beauty, her +strange manner, had gone a little to his head. + +Ismay turned to him as the hansom stopped at her mother’s door, and +looked once more at his strong, sweet face and broad shoulders. + +“No! I will not forget you,” she said, with her delicate smile that was +so much older than her manner. “And when I meet you again--remember, +you must be glad to see me.” + +“Shall I knock for you?” he asked, helping her out. + +“Knock? Oh, no!” Last night she would have been afraid to go out +secretly and come back openly with an utter stranger, but now there +was a lightness in her dancing blood that made her utterly indifferent +as to what reception she would get from her mother. The light from +the street-lamps fell on her face as she put her hand in his with a +gesture of dismissal, not learned, assuredly, at Mrs. Barlow’s school. +But at the clasp of his strong fingers she thrilled, and knew the world +would end for her before she forgot him. + +She drew a long, shivering breath as she watched him drive away. + +“I wish,” she thought, with a sudden vain longing, “that I had let him +tell me his name! But I will find him again some day, as sure as he and +I live in this world.” + +She little knew how she would find him--nor what terror would make her +almost forget him first--as she calmly rang at her mother’s door-bell. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +“A PENNILESS ADVENTURESS.” + + +Lord Abbotsford stood in front of the fire and broke what had been a +long silence. He was tall and rather good-looking; years younger than +the woman who sat opposite him, her haggard face hidden in her hands. +But his voice was rough to brutality as he spoke. + +“You knew I should have to marry some day. I can’t see why you are +making such a fuss.” + +Mrs. Trelane quivered with anger. She had known it, but of late it had +been herself whom she had thought of as Lady Abbotsford. After all, why +not? She was as well born as he, and there was nothing--that Abbotsford +knew--against her. She took her hands from her eyes and looked at him. + +“Be civil, it can’t hurt you,” she said coldly. + +“Well, you did know it, Helen!” But his eyes fell shiftingly, though +he could not know the reason for the despair in hers. Helen Trelane +was like a gambler who had put his all on one throw and seen it swept +off the board. Her last few hundred pounds of capital had gone in the +struggle to be always well dressed and to have a good dinner always for +Lord Abbotsford. She had played not for his love, but for his coronet. +And to-night his news had cut the very ground from under her feet. + +It was for this that she had forsaken the cheerful companions who +amused her; to have this dissipated boy stand up and tell her roundly +that he was going to be married, and would in future dispense with the +pleasure of her acquaintance. + +And this to her, who had been born à la Marchant! + +But the good blood in her veins did not let her forget that she was +penniless and ruined, and that she must drive a bargain with Abbotsford +or starve. + +She rose from her low chair and looked at him, a beautiful woman still, +and young. + +“Did you mean to marry a month ago, when you were ready to sell your +love to kiss my hand?” she said slowly, cuttingly. “You were ready +enough to come here to eat my bread; but it appears I am not fit to +eat yours in return. Your wife, Lord Abbotsford, has my sympathy. She +will marry a bad-tempered, miserly boy, who thinks of nothing but +his own pleasure. Your presents”--she tore some rings off and threw +them on a brass table, where they rang loud as they fell--“take them! +And go--leave my house. You have told me to my face that I am an +adventuress. I tell you that I am a penniless one, and that even so I +would rather be myself than you.” + +She was magnificent as she faced him, and he stammered when he would +have spoken. + +He might have said words that would have softened her, might only +have hurried the steps of the Nemesis at his heels, but he lost his +chance. The door of the small scented room opened quickly, and Ismay, +in her shabby clothes, the air still fresh on her cheeks, stood on the +threshold. + +Mrs. Trelane stood turned to stone. + +“Ismay!” she spoke at last. “What brings you here?” + +“I forgot. I thought you were alone!” the girl said quietly. She had +only a contemptuous glance for Abbotsford, that contrasted him with the +man she had just left. + +Her mother looked at her as she stood in the doorway; then at +Abbotsford, who was utterly astonished. + +“You hear,” she said, “this is my daughter. You did not know I had one? +Well, I have, and I let her be humiliated that I might have money--for +other things.” + +She walked over and put her arms round the girl, forgetting for the +moment how unwelcome she was in her fresh youth and beauty. + +“Go,” she said, over her shoulder; “leave us! We can starve together +without you and your wife.” + +Abbotsford walked by them without a word, but for once in his ill-spent +life he felt small. + +But the door had barely closed behind him before Mrs. Trelane drew away +from her daughter, and stood looking at her; the anger Abbotsford had +roused turned on the girl. + +“What madness is this?” she asked hardly. “Had you no sense that you +must come in here? And do you know what your freak means to me? If we +starve you have yourself to blame!” + +She threw herself into a chair, her nerves and temper thoroughly out of +hand. And then started at the sound in her own child’s voice. + +“Oh, no, we sha’n’t!” said the girl, with a cynical smile on her red +lips that were not like Mrs. Trelane’s. “You are too clever, and +so”--deliberately--“am I! You forget I’m not a child any longer.” + +Mrs. Trelane looked up, and met eyes which were somehow those of an +equal, another woman, and spoke truthfully in her raging disappointment. + +“That man who went out--he’s going to be married. And I, like a fool, +thought he meant to marry me!” + +“Can’t you get something out of him?” + +“I meant to marry him, I tell you”--roughly. “Those things are all he +ever gave me.” She pointed to the cast-off rings on the Moorish table. + +“What do you mean about starving?” Ismay asked. “Haven’t you any money? +Have you”--deliberately--“spent it all on him?”--with a nod toward the +door by which Lord Abbotsford had departed. + +Mrs. Trelane moaned. + +“I thought it wouldn’t matter. I thought he meant to marry me,” she +said faintly. “That was why I kept you out of the way; I didn’t want +him to know how old I was till it was all settled. And now”--she flung +her hands out angrily--“I will pay him for it all if I kill him!” + +“You can sell these things,” Ismay said quickly, looking round her at +the costly furniture, the many ornaments. + +“There is a bill of sale on them already,” the woman said dryly, and +speaking perfectly openly, as if to another woman of her own age and +not to her daughter. It was a relief to speak out; she forgot how +she had treated the girl since her return, how she had neglected her +for the prospect of a rich marriage. “But I’ll get something out of +Abbotsford somehow, even if I have to call it a loan,” she added. + +“I wouldn’t ever speak to him again,” Ismay remarked scornfully. “And +why didn’t you bring me home from school long ago, if you’d no money?” + +“Because”--with absolute truth--“I didn’t want a grown-up girl about.” + +For a moment the two pairs of eyes met; then the girl shrugged her +shoulders. + +“Well, I’m here, and I’ll have to stay,” she retorted. “As for Lord +Abbotsford, you’re well rid of him. But I suppose you don’t think so. +Can I take this candle? There’s no light up-stairs, and I want to go to +bed.” + +Mrs. Trelane was utterly taken aback by the matter-of-fact conclusion. +Somehow Ismay seemed years older to-night, and she had no clue to what +had worked the miracle. She pushed a candlestick over to her without +answering, and not a word did the girl breathe of where and how she had +spent her evening. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE ROSE-COLORED ROOM. + + +“Look.” Mrs. Trelane’s face was radiant as she threw a note across the +luncheon-table to Ismay the next day. It was from Lord Abbotsford. +“Look, he wants to see me this afternoon. He’s ill, can’t come out, and +he’s sent me this latch-key so that I can go in without his man seeing +me. He must be going to do something for me.” + +“Will you go? I wouldn’t,” Ismay said slowly. She was weary from a +stormy morning; sickened by the abuse of the two maid servants who had +smelled disaster and departed after vainly demanding their wages. + +“Go! What else should I do?” Mrs. Trelane seized the note again and +rose to leave the room. “Three o’clock, he says, and it’s two now. I’ll +go and dress.” + +“Where does he live?” the girl asked idly, yet with intention. Somehow +she did not like this expedition. + +“Not far; he has a house in Onslow Place.” + +“Well, if I were you, I would ring the bell and go openly; have the +servant announce you! I wouldn’t creep in with a key.” + +But Mrs. Trelane took no notice. + +It was a dark afternoon, and Onslow Place was very quiet. No one saw +her as she opened Lord Abbotsford’s door with the little latch-key. +She met no one as she went softly up the carpeted stair to his +sitting-room. She had been there before once, and knew the way. + +The room was strangely quiet as she opened the door. It was all hung +with pale pink, and furnished in a darker pink brocade; not like a +man’s room at all. There were bowls of hothouse carnations everywhere, +each great flower a fiery rose; and the silver lamps were already lit +under their rose-colored shades. + +Mrs. Trelane shut the door behind her, and as she did so a faint rustle +in the next room could easily have passed unheard. + +“Abbotsford,” she said softly, looking very young and handsome in her +plain tailor-made gown, “are you here?” + +A screen was drawn round the hearth, with room enough for a sofa +between it and the fire. A table stood by the window, and at first Mrs. +Trelane paid no heed to it, as she walked round the screen. + +Abbotsford was on the sofa asleep, his head lying on his arm. + +“Wake up, I’m here,” she said lightly. “I don’t wonder you’re asleep. +Your flowers are too strong; they smell just like bitter almonds.” + +Lord Abbotsford never moved; and once more the strange quiet of the +room struck on Helen Trelane’s nerves. + +“What’s the matter with you?” she said sharply. “Why can’t you wake up? +And what are you doing with all that?” For the letter on the table had +caught her eye; money, notes, and gold, in an open purple velvet box; +diamonds, a necklace, bracelets, a tiara. Her heart gave a leap. Had he +indeed repented and sent for her to give her these? + +Something else on the table softened her heart, too: the only +photograph she had ever had taken for years; it had been done for +Abbotsford. She remembered how he had taken the negative from the +photographer and broken it, for fear she might have more printed. He +had loved her then. Oh, if she could only rouse that love again for one +half-hour! + +The silk linings of her dark purple dress rustled as she moved toward +him where he slept, and sank on her knees beside him. + +“Wake up, sleepy boy, you sent for me, you know.” His hand was +strangely cool as she took it in hers; the next instant she had jumped +to her feet. + +“My God!” she cried, trembling like a leaf. “It can’t be.” + +She lifted the arm that was over the face, and kept, she never knew +how, from shrieking. John Inglesby, Lord Abbotsford, was dead--dead in +the pink, luxurious chamber where the flowers smelled of almonds, where +there was nothing to tell how he died. + +Was it a trap? Had he killed himself on purpose? Sent for her? + +Mrs. Trelane, with her skirts gathered up to make no sound, fled +swiftly from the room. The house was quite quiet, the servants all +down-stairs; the woman who had been young and radiant as she came in, +slipped out of that horrible house wan as the man up-stairs. She dared +not hurry away, though the early darkness of London was growing apace, +and she could not if she had tried, for her feet would scarcely carry +her. + +Suddenly she stopped short, for quick steps came behind her. Had any +one seen her go out? Had any one found that which lay up-stairs? She +turned, ready to drop. + +“Ismay!” The cry was hysterical, uncontrollable, for it was Ismay +hurrying after her. “What are you here for?” + +“Why not? I was going for a walk, and I came this way. What made you so +quick? You have not been there five minutes--you can’t have.” + +Her mother clutched her by the arm fiercely and whispered in her ear. + +“Don’t stop like this! walk on,” the girl said, very low, yet with +authority. “Did any one see you? You’re sure there was no one there?” + +“No one.” Mrs. Trelane’s teeth were chattering. + +“Is there anything in the room that might get you into trouble? Think, +quick!” + +“Oh, my photograph. It’s there on the table.” What a fool she had been +not to bring it. + +“Do the servants know you? Does any one know he was a friend of yours?” + +“No; no one! I was very careful. I did not want my past to come up--if +he married me.” The words were gasped out under her breath; for once +terror was too much for her. “You don’t think they’ll bring me into it, +Ismay?” + +Ismay turned round. + +“Go back,” she said, “quick, and get that photograph. It’s risky, +but it’s your only chance. Don’t you see that you might be suspected +through it?” + +“I can’t,” but she had turned, too. + +“You must! I’ll wait outside.” + +She almost pulled the elder woman back to the house she had but just +left; with a steady hand she fitted in the latch-key her mother could +not turn. Sick with fright, but desperate, she pushed her gently into +the dim hall and closed the door softly behind her. Helen Trelane, like +a guilty thing, crept back to that room of horror, and her daughter +strolled quietly along outside in terror. Suppose she had done just the +wrong thing? + +Ismay shivered in her thin coat, and then turned back in time to see +what made her blood thicken with a worse chill than the November air. + +A hansom cab was stopping at Abbotsford’s door. A tall man in a loose +overcoat, that was like every other fashionable overcoat in London, +jumped out and put his hand in his pocket to pay his fare. + +He was going into the house! He would find her mother, find Abbotsford; +he would find out, perhaps, more! With a horrible clearness those words +of her own mother’s came back to the girl. + +“I will pay him for it all if I kill him.” + +In her sick horror the girl’s breath failed her; before she could draw +it again the man, whose back was still turned to her in the dusk, had +put a key in the door--Lord Abbotsford was evidently generous with +keys--and disappeared within the house. + +If Ismay Trelane had thought it would have availed her anything, she +would have fallen on her knees in the street--and prayed! + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +“THE MYSTERY.” + + +Mr. Marcus Wray laid down his morning paper on his lonely +breakfast-table with a queer sound in his throat. + +He had taken a deep interest in the affairs, as became a barrister in +fair standing, and now the verdict of the coroner’s jury stared him in +the face. So important a thing had called out a leading article, and +Mr. Wray had read it till he knew it by heart. Yet he picked up the +paper now, and looked at it again. + + “The mystery surrounding Lord Abbotsford’s death,” it ran, “has not + been lifted by the verdict at the inquest. The deceased clearly + came to his death by poisoning with cyanid of potassium, which + could not have been administered by his own hand, as no trace of + any bottle containing it was found anywhere in the house of the + unfortunate nobleman. And the verdict of murder by persons unknown + has only deepened the horror of the public, since no trace or clue + to the supposed murderer has been discovered. The evidence of the + servants--who were all able to prove an alibi on the afternoon of the + murder--that no one entered the house, has been rendered worthless + by the statement of Mr. Cylmer, of Cylmer’s Ferry, who swore that he + had entered with a latch-key, gone up-stairs and put down a box of + cigarettes in the very room in which Lord Abbotsford was lying, and + gone out again at once without seeing him, where he lay on a sofa + behind a screen. He had hurried out to join a friend in the street: + half an hour later he went back to Lord Abbotsford’s house, and this + time discovered his body, and sent the servants at once for the + police. That Mr. Cylmer--who was a close friend of the deceased--was + guiltless, was amply proved at the inquest; but the criminal is still + to be found, and a large reward has been offered for his apprehension. + + “The only clue so far comes from the evidence of Mr. Cylmer, that, on + laying down the box of cigarettes, he had noticed on a small table + some bank-notes, a quantity of loose gold, some diamonds in an open + box, and a woman’s photograph, which he had not been accustomed to + see there. On his return and discovery of the dead body, the gold, + diamonds, and photograph were gone; the notes only remained. + + “Mr. Cylmer stated that he merely glanced at the photograph. Lord + Abbotsford had many women friends whom he did not know; but that he + remembered distinctly its being there. Of the diamonds missing, no + trace can be found, though they had only been purchased that day as + a gift for the betrothed wife of the dead man. But that such infamous + crimes can be committed with impunity in the house of a well-known + nobleman, in the very heart of London, is not to be thought possible, + and every means will be brought to bear to bring the perpetrator to + justice. No motive can be found for the murder, the robbery excepted. + His estates go to a distant cousin, at present a midshipman on foreign + service in the Royal Navy. The deepest of sympathy is extended + throughout society to the lady whose engagement to Lord Abbotsford was + announced only the day before his death.” + +“A pack of fools!” said the reader slowly. “And the man who wrote this +is the worst. They may hunt through every street in London and never +find a thread to help them. If Lord Abbotsford had had a clever man +servant”--he shrugged his lean shoulders--“but he would have country +bumpkins from his estate to wait on him, and no others!” + +He sat in a brown study for a long half-hour, and then roused himself +to eat his cold breakfast. He had not eaten much lately; his waitress, +when she cleared away, was glad his appetite had improved. He lived +alone in one of the curious rookeries known to the frequenters of the +Inns of Court. He was anything but a briefless barrister, yet his +briefs were usually of a sort another man would have looked at twice. + +Not Marcus Wray--the world owed him a living, and he must get it, +somehow. It did not concern him that the people who went up and down +his staircase--after dark--were not the cream of society. + +Contrary to his habits, he spent his morning in utter idleness, +smoking; his lean, round shoulders more humped than usual, his ugly, +clean-shaven face wrinkled repulsively. + +There was money to be got out of the Abbotsford tragedy, yet just +how would not come to him. His thick, red lips pressed hard on his +cigar, and the lean, knotted hand that lay on his knee never ceased a +curiously light movement, as if he were driving in a nail, carefully, +very carefully. Suddenly the tapping ceased as the man’s face relaxed. + +“I think I have it,” he said to himself. “Anyhow, I will go out +and--make a call!” + +He folded up his paper and put it safely in his overcoat pocket when he +was ready to start. He might want it--it had interested him. + +It had interested two other people in London--Ismay Trelane and her +mother. + +Till they read it they had hardly eaten or slept; the days had passed +somehow, that was all. If Mr. Cylmer’s evidence had been given early in +the inquiry they might have suffered less, but it had been kept to the +very last. + +Mrs. Trelane, pale and staring, was the first to speak when the morning +paper was read. + +“We’re all right,” she said thickly. + +Ismay nodded. “When he went in I thought you were lost. But it was +lucky you got that photograph. I suppose it’s Abbotsford’s sovereigns +you’ve been staving off your tradesmen with.” + +“They were no good to him”--cynically. + +“And not much to us; they’re all gone now.” + +Mrs. Trelane, who had scarcely spoken since that day of terror, who had +not gone out lest some one should know her, seemed turned into another +woman by the reading of that newspaper article. She looked at Ismay +almost triumphantly. + +“Very nearly gone, but--they’re not all!” + +“Then,” said Ismay slowly, “you did take the diamonds! How did you find +the courage? You were almost too frightened to walk when I pushed you +in the door.” Once more that horrible suspicion sickened her. + +“I don’t know,” said her mother simply. “You see, the shock of it was +over; after all, he was only a dead man, and I had seen dead people +before.” + +“But you were mad; they’re no good to us,” the girl gasped; “we daren’t +sell them.” + +“We do, to one man in London.” + +“As they are?” + +“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, he won’t dare ask questions. But +once they are sold we can get away from here; go somewhere and start +fresh. I won’t be comfortable till we are out of London. The sale of +the diamonds will pay nearly everything, and leave us money in hand.” + +“Are you wise?” Ismay asked hardly. “Or are you running into a trap?” + +“Not I! I am too old a resident in ‘underground London’ for that, +Ismay.” She stopped suddenly and listened. “Did I hear a bell ring?” + +“It’s the door-bell; some one has come for money. I’ll go.” + +Ismay left her mother huddling over their scanty fire--for the +coal-merchant was like every one else, unpaid--and went to the front +door. The shabby black gown that was her all was not even neat, and she +had no collar on; her wonderful flaxen hair was coiled anyhow round +her small head, but to the man who stood on the door-step her strange +beauty was a revelation. Was this the ugly child Helen Trelane had +shoved into a convenient boarding-school and forgotten? Instinctively +he took off his hat, as if he had seen Circe herself. + +“Is it possible that you are Ismay?” he said. + +The girl looked at him with somber dislike, his ugliness repelled, +almost sickened, her. And at the cold oiliness of his voice she +recoiled as at something tangibly evil. Who was he that he knew her? + +He held out his hand, but she would not see it. + +“You don’t remember me, of course,” he smiled. “Is your mother in? I +came to see her.” + +“I don’t know; she went out, but she may be back.” Some instinct made +her lie, and the man knew it. + +“Tell her,” he said, “that Marcus Wray has come to see her.” + +And before Ismay could shut the door he stood beside her in the little +white-paneled, turquoise-tiled hall, that felt so cold. + +Mrs. Trelane started when her daughter came in breathless from she knew +not what. + +“A man who wants you,” she said; “his name is Wray. And he called me +Ismay! Mother, who is he?” + +If she had spoken truly, Mrs. Trelane would have said her evil genius. +Instead, her eyes glittered for one instant in surprise. What had +brought him, whom three years ago she had shaken off forever? + +“Marcus Wray?” she said unbelievingly. “What could he want?” + +“You. Oh, what a hideous man! He is like a toad, a snake!” + +“Hush!” The woman whispered angrily. “He might hear, and he’s the man +I meant; the only man in London who will buy those diamonds. Bring him +here, it’s the only warm place in the house.” + +Ismay glanced at the untidy breakfast, not cleared away, the disorder +of the luxuriously furnished room; and Mrs. Trelane laughed. + +“He has seen worse,” she remarked quietly. “Bring him.” + +“I won’t stay in the room with him! He makes me sick.” + +“No one wants you to,” said her mother, yet as she looked in the glass +at her own worn beauty she felt a tinge of uneasiness. There was +something uncanny about this visit from a man she had not seen for +three years; his coming just when she had need of him. She wished she +could know what it meant. But as he entered, immaculately dressed as +she remembered him, Mrs. Trelane greeted him as if he were her dearest +friend. + +“You don’t mind my having you in here?” she said simply. “It is the +only fire. And where have you been all this time--do you know it is +years since you have remembered me?” + +“It is years since I have seen you,” he corrected her, “but you are +just the same. But the girl, your daughter”--the door had banged behind +him when he entered, making him smile covertly--“is not the same. She +is beautiful, though not like you; nor”--thoughtfully--“like Trelane.” + +Mrs. Trelane bit her lip. + +“Did you come to compliment me on my child?” she said prettily. “How +nice of you!” + +Marcus Wray took a chair by the fire, though his hostess was standing. + +“No,” he answered carelessly, his sharp, narrow eyes wandering round +the dusty costliness of the room. “No, I came--because you needed me.” + +“Needed you. I?” Every bit of color left her face; her uneasiness had +been well founded then; it was not chance that brought Marcus Wray. + +He nodded. + +“I thought so; perhaps I’m wrong. But this morning I felt certain that +if I did not come to see you, you would come to me; so I saved you the +trouble. By the way”--he pulled something from his overcoat pocket and +held it out to her--“have you seen this morning’s _Herald_?” + +Mrs. Trelane, standing by the table, put a sudden hand on it, as if her +strength had failed her. + +“You have, I see. Well!--sit down, you can talk better.” He pushed a +chair to her with his foot, contemptuously. + +“I have seen the paper--yes, of course! But what of it?” She had not +stirred to take the chair. The last time she had seen Marcus Wray she +had dictated to him--had he waited all this time to avenge himself? + +“I thought you’d like to sell them. It’s not safe, you know, to have +them.” + +“Sell what? Have what? I don’t know what you mean!” she panted. + +“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you! I was in a house in Onslow Square, +across the way from Lord Abbotsford’s, one afternoon last week; I was +dull, and looked out the window. You came, you went; you came, you +went”--moving his hand to and fro like a weaver’s shuttle--“the last +time you were agitated, but not your daughter; she pushed you in.” He +paused, looking deliberately at her. “The second time you came out you +hurried--needlessly.” + +“Mark, Mark.” She was beside him, clutching his arm hard with her slim +white hand. “He was dead when I went in, I swear he was dead! I went +back to get----” + +“Your photograph, and the--other things. Well, you got them! I +congratulate you. But as for his being dead”--he shrugged his rounded +shoulders, heedless of her desperate hold on his arm. + +“My God, do you think I killed him?” + +The words came bleakly after a silence, when the slow dropping of the +coals from the grate had sounded loud. + +“Would you like to stand your trial if I told all I saw? If you could +convince the jury, you could convince me afterward, you know.” The hand +on his arm relaxed suddenly. + +“Mark, Mark,” the woman said bitterly, “once I trusted you, when all +the world condemned you----” + +“And kicked me from your door afterward like a troublesome dog,” he +interrupted her quietly. “Well, it’s my turn now! Give me the diamonds, +and your dog holds his tongue.” + +“Do you mean sell them to you?” She had sunk into a chair as if she +could never rise again. + +“No, I mean give,” he said relentlessly. “Don’t you understand? It’s my +price; the price of silence.” + +“But I’m ruined! If you take them we are beggars on the street, the +girl and I. I took the diamonds because--look round you”--breaking off +desperately--“don’t you see we have nothing? There is a bill of sale on +the furniture, the lease of the house is up--do you want me to starve?” + +“You have never starved yet,” he retorted. “But if you prefer to hang, +keep the diamonds. I, too, want money, and if you don’t pay me, some +one else will. Look!” He held to her a printed paper, that swam before +her eyes. + +“I can’t read it,” she muttered. + +“No? It is that five hundred pounds reward is offered for the discovery +of the murderer of Lord Abbotsford. Your diamonds are worth eight +hundred, so you will pay me best. Only if you fail me--well, if one +can’t have cake, one takes gingerbread!” + +He leaned toward her threatening, sinister, yet smiling. + +“You had better give me the cake.” + +“How do I know”--after all, she was brave in her fashion, he could not +help wondering how she found courage to bargain--“how do I know that +you will not take my cake and their gingerbread? Giving you what you +say I have will not make you faithful.” + +“Nothing will make me faithful,” said Marcus Wray, with a noiseless +laugh. “But the diamonds will help, and if your daughter is a sensible +girl she will do the rest. I am coming to see her--very often.” + +He rose as he spoke and walked to the mantelpiece, where a heavily +framed picture hung. + +“I have not forgotten your ways,” he observed, drawing out a purple +velvet box stuck behind the picture and putting it carefully into his +breast pocket. “I thought they would be there.” He took up his shining +hat airily. + +“Au revoir, dear lady,” he said. “Tell your little girl to open the +door for me.” + +At the words a last hope dawned on Mrs. Trelane’s misery. Marcus +admired the girl--then, perhaps, she could manage him where her mother +had failed. + +“Wait here, I’ll find her,” she faltered; and hurried out. + +Ismay, sitting on her bed, wrapped in the coverlet to keep warm, +started at her mother’s livid face; started once again at her quick, +whispered sentences. + +“You let him frighten you! You let him know you had them!” She stamped +her foot. + +“What could I do? Oh! go to him, try----” + +Mrs. Trelane threw herself on the bed, broken with tearless sobbing +that she could not control; and her daughter, with a bravery that +sprang from ignorance, went down to try her strength against that of +Marcus Wray. + +Half an hour later she stood alone in the room she had entered with her +head high and her eyes blazing. Now she shivered as she heard the front +door close behind the strange visitor. + +Yet he had been perfectly civil. + +“The diamonds--since you insist these are diamonds--are quite safe. +So is the reputation of your mother while you take an interest in it. +Suppose you go to the theater with me to-morrow night?--it would do you +good,” he had said to her. + +His words rang in her ears, the tone had been perfectly polite, but the +veiled threat in it had staggered her. The next moment she had found +her courage. + +“With you? No, never!” + +“You had better think of it,” he said quietly. “I assure you I am a +good friend and a bad enemy. If I have taken a liking to you, why be +angry? You can’t get away from London, you know, without any money--nor +from me.” + +He was gone now, out of the house, yet a sudden terror of him shook +her. She turned and ran, as if she were hunted, to where her mother lay +shivering on the bed. + +“Mother,” she cried desperately, “think quickly! Isn’t there some way +we can be rid of that man?” + +“I’ll try--but I don’t think I can find one.” + +Mrs. Trelane shivered as she rose and went to her writing-table. + +Ismay, watching her haggard face, was terror-stricken afresh. How had +her mother been terrified into giving up those diamonds? Was there +something that Marcus Wray knew? + +Ismay could not finish that thought. She sat motionless, as Mrs. +Trelane, without even showing her the address of the letter she had +written, went out and posted it. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A LUCKY CAST. + + +The great house lay very still in the evening sunshine that slanted +soft and red on its gray old walls and turned its many windows to amber +fires, its castellated roof to a rose-red carving against the pale +blue eastern sky. Over the great hall door that opened on a wide stone +terrace, grim with lions wrought in stone, was carved the motto of the +master of the house--“What Marchant held let Marchant hold.” + +The words were repulsive and ironical in their pride to the man who +looked up at them involuntarily as he got out of his carriage and went +into his house. He passed wearily through the hall to his library, and +locked the door behind him. + +He must have time to think; must be alone. He dreaded the sound of the +light knock at the door, which would mean Cristiane had come to see +what he had brought her from London. And the motto of his house over +his door had been like a blow on the eyes to him to-night. + +“What Marchant held let Marchant hold.” + +He, Gaspard le Marchant, had learned to-day that a resistless hand was +loosening his own grip on the house of his fathers; of his lands and +money; of his life itself. But it was not the losing of those things +that made his upper lip damp with sweat as he sat alone in the dim, +Russia leather scented library. + +“Cristiane,” he said to himself very quietly. “Who can I leave with +Cristiane?” + +His thought was all for his only daughter, the child of his love. +Seventeen years old, cherished, adored, beautiful--who would take care +of her when he was gone? And go he must, for the great London doctor +had told him so that very morning. + +“It is a matter of months, Sir Gaspard; perhaps of weeks.” + +The words in this hard gentleness seemed to ring still in the ears of +the man who sat alone. + +“A matter of a very few months, and if you have anything to arrange it +would be best, perhaps, to see to it at once.” + +Gaspard le Marchant’s voice had been quite quiet as he answered the +words that were his death-warrant, but he had gone straight from the +doctor’s house and taken the first train home to Marchant Place. + +He had not felt really well for a year past, but he had never thought +it was serious when he paid that two-days’ visit to London; he had gone +up more to buy new clothes than to see a doctor. It had been a cursory +visit, and, like many such things, had held the tidings of death in it. + +A few weeks more and Gaspard le Marchant would be done with this world, +and powerless to care for the child for whom that other Cristiane had +given her life seventeen years ago. + +At the thought, another thought, that had been in the man’s mind all +day, came over him with ineffable power. The doctor had meant that if +there was anything he wanted to do before he died he had better do +it. Well, there was one thing--call it the whim of a dying man if you +liked! He must go once more to that grave where they had laid all that +was left of the woman who loved him, seventeen years ago. + +He must bury his face in the grass that grew over her body; must tell +her that the parting was, after all, not long; the day very close at +hand now when he and she would walk together in the paths of paradise. + +“I can’t tell the child I’m going to die,” he thought. “And I must find +a guardian for her somehow. If I only knew a woman I could trust! God +knows the girl must have missed her mother many a day.” + +He was the last of the Le Marchants’; he had no relations except a +married cousin, of whom he had lost sight long ago, and his wife had +had no one. + +People said Cristiane’s mother had been an adventuress; certainly she +had left her daughter the legacy only of her own outlandish name, +her own wonderful red-gold hair, and a wild will that there was no +compelling. + +Cristiane Luoff her name had been, and Sir Gaspard had married her in +Rome. For a year they had been utterly happy--and now he was going to +look on her grave for the last time before he died. + +First, though, he must find some one to leave with Cristiane, and he +had no inkling where to turn. Men he knew--but Cristiane was too pretty +to leave to any of them; women--he could not think of one! + +He stared idly across the wide oak writing-table before him, and a neat +pile of letters caught his eye. Surely he had seen the writing on that +top envelope before--but where! + +Small, neat, dainty, it lay before his gaze, and he opened it, more to +turn his thoughts than because it could have to do with what was in his +mind. + +“Helen Trelane” it was signed, and he wondered no longer why the +writing had looked familiar, though it was years since he had seen it. + +Mrs. Trelane was his only relative, and had married a man of whom +report spoke variously as a scoundrel and a martyr. Only reports of the +first sort had reached Sir Gaspard. Trelane had long been dead, and, +living, had had few friends. One thing was certain, that with him Mrs. +Trelane had led a life of precarious poverty, till she had gradually +drifted utterly away from the people who had known her as Helen le +Marchant. + +When Trelane drank himself to death--or died of a broken heart, as some +people had it--Sir Gaspard had sent a large check to his widow, and she +had written more times than were quite necessary to thank him. He had +let the correspondence drop, but now he recognized the writing. + + “My Dear Gaspard,” the letter ran, “I suppose you will be surprised + at hearing from one of whom you have heard nothing since your great + kindness at a sad time. I would have written had I had anything + pleasant to say, but things have not gone well with me and my little + girl. + + “An imprudent man of business--I do not care to write a dishonest + one--the education of my child, which cost more than I imagined, and + perhaps my own foolish ignorance of money matters, have resulted in my + being nearly penniless. + + “I write to you now as my only relation, to tell you that I must find + a situation as governess or companion to support my child, and to ask + you if you will be good enough to act as reference to my employers, + when I find them. + + “If you answer this at once, this address will find me, but if not, + please write care May’s Employment Office, for my lease of this house + expires at the end of this week, and I do not know yet where I can go. + + “You have never seen Ismay. She is sixteen now. I think her pretty, + and I know her to be my only comfort. When I find a situation I shall + send her back to her school as a pupil teacher, but the parting will + be a hard one, and I have not yet found courage to tell her of it. + + “However, it must be; and I rely on your old kindness when I ask you + to let me refer to you as to my fitness to undertake the charge of + girls. + + “Your cousin, + “HELEN TRELANE. + + “1 Colbourne Square, London.” + +It was a letter that had given its writer some trouble, but +circumstances had rendered it a masterpiece. + +Could Helen Trelane have seen Sir Gaspard turn again to the few words +in which she spoke sadly of the parting with her daughter she would +have smiled in quiet triumph at the inspiration which had made her bait +her nearly hopeless hook with love for her child. She had asked for so +little, too; and there was nothing to let Sir Gaspard know that she +meant him to do for her treble what she asked. + +“Poor girl, poor Helen!” he thought. “What a fate to have to earn her +own living and be parted from her child. But if she is the woman I +think her, I can save her from that--only I must see her first.” + +It seemed to Le Marchant that the finger of Providence was in Helen +Trelane’s letter. Who would make a better guardian for Cristiane than +his own cousin, a mother herself? + +She had said something about her ignorance of money matters, but +he could leave Cristiane’s money so tied up that there would be no +question of managing it. + +He wrote a short note, appointing a time to see Mrs. Trelane in London. +Somehow his heart had lightened since reading that letter from another +Le Marchant, who was pained and desperate about her only child. + +As he sealed his note he started, like a child caught in mischief, for +there sounded an impatient tap at the door. + +It was Cristiane. And he was making plans for her he could not tell +her, with his heart full of an agony she must not suspect. + +“Are you here, father? May I come in?” + +How sweet and full the girl’s voice sounded through the oak door! + +The man’s heart fairly turned in his breast as he rose and let her in. + +But his handsome face was quite calm as the girl put up her fresh cheek +for his kiss; if his lip trembled under his fair mustache she was not +woman enough to know it. + +“Have you just come back? Why didn’t you let me know, daddy?” she +demanded imperiously. “Or were you busy?”--with a careless glance at +the newly written note that was to mean so much for her. He nodded. + +“Finished now? Tell me, chickabiddy, how did you get on without me?” He +could not keep from passing a hand that shook a little over the dear +waves of her red-gold hair. + +She faced him suddenly. + +“You’re tired, daddy; you look pale. We’ll have dinner early.” + +“Whenever you like.” + +He was looking at her as a man looks at the dearest thing on earth; how +fair, how heavenly fair she was as she stood, tall and slim, in her +white frock, the last sunset light catching her golden hair; falling +on her great dark-gray eyes, which were all but black, or sometimes +violet, as her mood varied; making lovely her faintly pink cheek, her +rose-red mouth. + +It was as though Cristiane Luoff had come back from the dead, in the +crown of her youth. + +“Oh, you are tired!” the girl cried, as she met his gaze. “You--you +look quite plain, daddy! I’ll ring for dinner now.” + +Somehow Gaspard le Marchant found strength to laugh at that time-worn +joke about his plainness, but the next instant his hard-held composure +was nearly out of hand. + +“You’ll never go away and leave me again, will you, daddy? I do miss +you so horribly.” + +“I--I won’t, if I can help it,” said Sir Gaspard, almost sharply. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +A DREAM OF SAFETY. + + +“Mother, aren’t you awake?” + +Ismay, wrapped in an old flannel dressing-gown, stood knocking sharply +at Mrs. Trelane’s bedroom door, her knuckles blue with cold and her +face set peevishly. + +“Mother,” she repeated, “there isn’t any milk, and the milkman won’t +leave us any unless we pay for it. Haven’t you any money?”--running her +fingers impatiently over the bedroom door. It opened quietly as she +drummed on it. Mrs. Trelane, dressed for the day and exquisitely neat, +stood looking at her. + +“What’s the matter, what do you want?” she asked angrily. Her face was +drawn from a night of waking, and haggard as a gambler’s who has flung +down his last card and does not know what remains in his opponent’s +hand. “Money? You know I haven’t any. Can’t you do without milk?” + +“I suppose I must”--sullenly. “Breakfast’s ready, then--dry bread and +tea without milk! What made you sleep so late? It’s nearly eleven.” + +“What was the good of waking?” Not even to Ismay could she say that +she had never slept the livelong night for waiting for the day and the +postman’s knock; that when it came she had run to the door to find only +the big blue envelope she had dreaded, and not a word from the man to +whom she had turned in her despair. + +Ever since she had sat old and haggard in the morning light, her busy +brain thinking, to no end. Unless Gaspard le Marchant answered that +letter destruction looked her in the face. + +She dressed herself at last under the spur of Ismay’s incessant +knocking and calling, but though her iron nerve kept her face steady, +her knees were trembling under her as she followed the girl into the +bare kitchen, where half a loaf of bread and some weak tea represented +their morning meal. + +Ismay sat down on the table and regarded her mother over the piece of +dry bread she held to her lips. + +“Look here,” she remarked slowly, “don’t you think it’s about time you +did something? Are we going to sit here and starve? And do you know +that Marcus Wray was knocking here this morning and I wouldn’t go to +the door?” + +Even the dirty dressing-gown, the weariness that drew down her upper +lip, could not take away from her unearthly beauty as her mother stared +at her. + +“Do something!” she retorted. “I’ve done all I can. That is what’s the +matter. And we sha’n’t certainly sit here and starve, for I heard this +morning that we are to be turned out on Saturday and our things sold +for rent. We shall starve more romantically in the street.” + +“I sha’n’t.” + +“What can you do? Go back to your school as a pupil teacher?” + +“Do I look like a pupil teacher?” asked Ismay, with a sarcastic glance +at herself. + +“You look--well, I don’t know whether you are very beautiful or very +ugly!” the elder woman returned listlessly, trying to break some dry +bread with distasteful fingers. + +“You’ll soon be told! Mother”--with sudden energy--“if you can’t find +some way out of this, I shall. I can sing, and I’m going round to every +music-hall I know till some man gives me a chance. Do you suppose”--she +stripped back the sleeve of her dingy dressing-gown from an arm that +was curiously slender, yet round, and of a milky whiteness--“that I am +going to let that starve?” + +“And what about me? I suppose I can go out charing!” + +Ismay shrugged her shoulders. There was no waste of courtesy between +the two. + +In the silence that fell, the postman’s knock seemed to thunder through +the quiet. Mrs. Trelane put her cup down on the table. + +“You go,” she said, for at the sudden noise her head swam. Surely she +had not lost her nerve, that had stood her in such stead this many a +year! + +“Two letters--notes--for you.” + +Ismay threw them down on the table, and, after one glance of sick +terror lest they might not be what she waited for, Mrs. Trelane seized +them. Both were in the writing she had not seen for years, both sealed +with the Le Marchant lion crouching with his paw on his prey. But why +were there two? Had he promised something, and then repented? + +Sick with terror, Helen Trelane tore one open, and at first dared not +read it. Then the sense of it seemed to flash on her, and the reaction +made her dizzy. + +It was all right! The last card, on which she had staked her all, had +not failed her. The writer would be in London on Friday, and would come +to see her at twelve o’clock, when he hoped to have some better plan to +propose than what she had suggested in her letter. + + “Till then,” he ended kindly, “please do not fret about your own or + your daughter’s future, for I can promise you that I will arrange + something. + + “Affectionately yours, + “G. LE MARCHANT.” + +There was not a word in it about his daughter. Sir Gaspard was too +careful of her to do things blindly, but he meant when he wrote to +provide for Helen Trelane, even if she turned out unfit to be trusted +with his child. + +Ismay took the note calmly from her mother’s nerveless hand. + +“Who’s Gaspard le Marchant, and why is he yours affectionately?” she +asked curiously. “But it doesn’t matter. The chief thing is that he is +‘yours affectionately’ just in the nick of time. What’s in the other +note?” + +“I don’t know.” Mrs. Trelane lay back, nerveless, in her hard chair; +she had conquered fate once more, but the relief was too acute yet to +be pleasant. With a shaking finger she opened the other note, and there +fell out two strips of paper. + + “You may need this, and you and I can settle later. + + “G. LE M.” + +The yellow slip enclosed was a check for a hundred pounds. + +When another woman would have cried with gratitude, Mrs. Trelane only +caught her breath cynically. “A fool and his money were soon parted,” +but what a mercy it was that he had been so easily managed! + +“What about the music-halls, Ismay?” she said bitterly, lifting her +triumphant eyes to her daughter’s astonished face. + +“Go out,” said the girl, “and cash this, and we’ll have meat for lunch. +But tell me first, who is he? And why didn’t you try him before?” + +“He is Sir Gaspard le Marchant, and the only relation I own. And I did +try him before, in a way. He sent me money once before, but I didn’t +need it especially, and I didn’t want to have to go and stay in a +stupid country house or have my dear cousin come hunting me up. So I +did not write to him till it looked as though camping on the cold, cold +ground was going to be our fate.” + +“Is he married?” + +“His wife has been dead for years.” + +“And you never tried to be Lady Le Marchant?” + +Mrs. Trelane’s cheek grew slowly red. + +“His first wife, my dear, was a Russian adventuress,” she returned +cuttingly, “and only a born adventuress could hope to succeed her. You +have all the qualifications--you might try for the place.” + +And she walked airily out of the room, quite transformed from the +haggard woman she had been when she entered it. But, though she was +tall and fair and handsome, she was not in the least like the girl who +sat alone looking with eager interest at the Le Marchant seal, the +Le Marchant motto, on the back of one of the torn envelopes. No Le +Marchant and no Trelane had ever had those strange eyes, that uncanny, +colorless beauty, that mouth as red as new blood. + +“What Marchant held let Marchant hold!” she read aloud from the +seal. “Well, half of me is Le Marchant, and the other half ‘born +adventuress’! I feel sorry--really sorry--for Sir Gaspard.” And she +slipped gracefully to the floor, and went after her mother. But in the +hall a knock and ring at their front door made her run noiselessly to +the bedroom, where Mrs. Trelane was putting on her bonnet. + +“He’s here,” Ismay cried; “it must be he; for it’s twelve o’clock, and +it’s Friday! You’ll have to go and let him in, I can’t.” + +“No, you can’t! Don’t you come near us,” said her mother, with quick +insistence, “unless I call you. Mind--for you might spoil everything! +And when I do call you, come in a decent frock, with a plain linen +collar, and behave yourself. Don’t make eyes at him whatever you do, +and be affectionate to me. Remember, now!” + +And she was gone to open the door for the man who was to change the +very face of the world for her. + +Miss Ismay Trelane, left alone, made a face. + +“Where does she think I’m going to get a clean collar when the +washerwoman has clawed them all till she’s paid? And I won’t get +dressed for a minute.” + +Lithe and slim she moved, without a sound, to a door that opened into +the drawing-room, and, noiselessly setting it ajar, listened with all +her ears. + +When she crept away her eyes were blazing. + +“It means plenty of money, and getting away from here to where Marcus +Wray will never think of looking for us!” she exulted, as she began +to change her dressing-gown for her only dress; but a sudden thought +dashed her joy. + +To leave London would mean never to see again the man whose face had +never left her memory since that night at the Palace Theater. + +“Why didn’t I let him tell me his name?” she thought, as she stamped +with impotent rage at her own folly. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THREEFOLD DANGER. + + +“Mrs. Trelane is father’s second cousin; and she and her daughter are +coming here for a visit; daddy has to go away, and he can’t take me, +and he won’t leave me alone.” + +Cristiane le Marchant leaned against the stem of a huge beech-tree that +overhung the broad lake at Marchant’s Hold. The sunlight came through +the leafless trees, and made the golden-red of her hair ruddier and +more glorious in contrast; her cheeks had a soft rose that melted into +creamy whiteness, and her eyes were very dark. + +Mr. Cylmer looked at her. She was certainly provokingly cool. + +“What are they like?” she asked curiously. + +“It doesn’t matter; they are a nuisance in any case,” said her +companion. + +“Why?” she asked, but did not look at him. + +“You never had a chaperon before,” he said dryly. “Oh! your father, I +know, but a woman’s--different. I know she’ll be in the way.” + +“In your way, Mr. Cylmer!” retorted Miss Le Marchant demurely, but her +eyes flashed mischievously at him through her heavy lashes. + +“Mr. Cylmer” kicked at the turf with vicious energy. + +“You needn’t rub it in, Cristiane,” he said crossly. “I know you don’t +care a button whether you see me alone or not.” + +He was very young-looking for his twenty-eight years; very brown and +big as he stood on the grass in his shooting-clothes. But he had not +been born yesterday for all his debonair face; there was very little +Mr. Cylmer had not done in this world; very little that his quick eye +did not see through. + +But all his worldly wisdom was wont to desert him when he found himself +alone with Cristiane. He was her humble slave, and it never occurred +to him that she would have valued him much more if she had known that +Miles Cylmer, who was such an every-day sort of person to her, could +have thrown his handkerchief to half the fine ladies in London, and had +it snapped up on the second; or that every woman he knew adored him, +from duchess to dairymaids. + +To Cristiane le Marchant he was plain Miles Cylmer, who had been in +and out of Marchant’s Hold all his life, and was to be regarded as a +convenient or inconvenient elder brother, as things might happen. + +“Come on,” she commanded practically, “I have to go to the house to +meet them.” + +“Is your father coming with them?” + +He stood looking down at her, six feet and to spare, his keen hazel +eyes full of annoyance, and his face quite grave. Had he not given up a +whole day’s shooting to be near Cristiane le Marchant? And now, instead +of a tête-à-tête with her, there would be two women to be disposed of; +two strangers to spoil it. + +“But your father’s coming with them,” he repeated, beginning to walk +slowly--very slowly--toward the house. + +“No, he isn’t!” Cristiane stopped short. “That’s what’s so funny about +these visitors. Father has sent them here, and he doesn’t know how long +he’ll be away, and he wrote me such a funny note.” And she pulled a +letter out of her pocket. + +“‘Write to me and tell me exactly what you think of Mrs. Trelane, if +you like her or not,’ she read. ‘But try and make friends with her +little daughter, for she needs a friend, and take time before you +write. Only write me your candid opinion.’ There, what do you think of +it? Why is this Mrs. Trelane so important, that I am to send daddy my +‘candid opinion.’ I can’t see any sense in it.” + +“By George, I can, then!” was on the tip of Mr. Cylmer’s tongue, but he +caught back the words in time. There could be only one meaning to the +letter; Sir Gaspard must be thinking of marrying again. + +Somehow Cylmer was unreasonably angry. From his earliest boyhood he had +been wont to gaze at the portrait of Cristiane’s mother, that hung +in Sir Gaspard’s room, with a wondering awe that any one could ever +have been so beautiful; it made him angry now in his manhood that the +husband she had loved should have dared to forget her. + +“No, I can’t see any sense,” he said lamely; “only be sure you tell +your father outright if you don’t like this Trelane woman. Otherwise he +might ask her to stay on, or something----” + +He jerked at his mustache irritably, quite unconscious how he was +wronging poor innocent Sir Gaspard. + +“I never would have thought Le Marchant the sort of man to marry +again,” he thought gloomily. “I’ll see him as soon as he gets back, and +tell him I--I want Cristiane. She sha’n’t have any stepmother about +while there’s a roof at Cylmer’s Ferry!” + +He looked doubtfully at the girl as she walked on before him. If only +he dared stoop and kiss those soft gold waves that were swept upward +from the back of her neck: dared to say he loved her from the crown of +her golden head to the tips of her little shoes. + +“Cristiane,” he said, “I want to speak to you. Do you know you have +never said you were sorry that these people were coming; never said you +would miss our long, happy days together?” + +“But I won’t,” she said calmly: “you’ll be here. You’re not going to +die, or anything, are you?” + +She had turned round to him as she spoke, and her violet-gray eyes were +raised to his, her rose-colored lips parted in a mockery that stung for +all its sweetness. + +Two hands that were light and yet hard as iron were laid on her +shoulders before she knew it. Miles Cylmer’s face, with a strange, +sweet pity on it that she had never seen there, was bent down to hers. + +“Cristiane, little girl, I want you to promise me something. If +anything goes wrong with you--will you come to me?” + +“What do you mean, Miles?” she said soberly. “What could go +wrong--while I have father?” + +His hands were hard on her shoulders. + +“I don’t know--but I love you, and somehow I’m afraid for you.” + +He spoke stumblingly--in his outraged pity that he thought was +love--how could he keep his raging pulse quiet? How could he make this +child, who did not love him, come to his heart? + +“Can’t you care a little, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Can’t you marry +me?” + +Marry him, Miles Cylmer, who was like a brother? + +“I--I don’t think I could, Miles,” Cristiane said slowly. “I----” + +“Try.” His face was close to hers, she could feel his breath, sweet +and warm, on her cheek. Was this Miles, who had never even thought of +making love to her? Why, he was trembling! + +With a sudden, wild rebellion the girl tore herself away from him. + +“Don’t touch me,” she panted. “Marry you--I would as soon marry Thomas +the butler; I’ve known him from a child, too!”--with angry scorn. + +Cylmer, very white and quiet, let his hands drop to his sides. + +“All right,” he said quietly, “we won’t speak of it. And I won’t come +over any more--after to-day.” + +“You needn’t.” She was struggling with tears. She did not know why. +“I--I wish you’d go home now!”--stamping her foot. + +“I will; but I’m going up to see these daughters of Heth first,” he +returned quietly. + +“Don’t dare to ask me to marry you again,” she cried childishly, +“because I don’t like it! And you’re not to stay to tea now--or come +here any more till I ask you.” + +“I will not. I shall let Thomas try his luck.” + +Mr. Cylmer’s voice was not without temper. He marched beside her over +the dun, wintry grass in silence, turning many things in his mind. + +“Oh!” cried Cristiane angrily, “there they are now, on the terrace. +Daddy said I was to be certain to meet them when they came, and I’m not +there, and it’s all your fault!” + +She hurried on to the great stone terrace that lay full in the wintry +sunshine. Two women stood there, both tall and slender, both dressed +in black. Cristiane was running now to join them, and a strange +superstitious feeling made Cylmer quicken his steps after her. Somehow +it was ominous--uncanny; the girl in all her youth and purity hurrying +toward those strange women in black. + +“God only knows when she’ll get rid of them!” Cylmer growled, with more +truth than he knew. + +As he neared them, Ismay, with a quick glance at his approaching figure +through the thick, spotted net of her veil, turned quietly and went +into the house. + +Who was this whose walk, whose face, she knew so well, even though it +was only once in her life that she had seen them? + +She looked sharply round the great, dim hall. It was empty, the +servants had gone. From its shelter, dark after the sun outside, the +girl peered carefully out through the wide crack of the hall door. + +Oh! if it were he, how should she meet him? Would he know her? And what +would he say? + +Her heart fairly stood still as she looked with her very soul in her +eyes through the crack to the group inside. And then it bounded with a +rapture that was pain. + +It was he--the man himself for whose sake she had been loath to leave +London lest she might miss the chance sight of his face in the streets! +Thirstily she drank in the strong beauty of his face, whose clear-cut +lines were stamped on her heart. Not a thread of his shooting-tweeds, +his dull-red tie, was lost on her. Her delicate hands were clenched +hard in her smart new gloves as she stared--for who was he, and what +was he doing here alone with this golden-haired girl? + +A wild jealousy caught her at the heart with a pain that was bodily. If +he were coming in, she dared not meet him under the eyes of her mother +and Cristiane le Marchant. She turned and fled swiftly into the first +room she saw; it was deserted and fireless, they would not come there. +And yet, while she hid, she would have given the life from her breast +to meet those grave, sweet eyes again with hers. + +Cylmer had scarcely noticed that the younger of the two strangers had +gone; he did not even look at the door through which she had vanished +as he stepped to Cristiane’s side with an involuntary instinct of +protectiveness. + +The girl grudgingly introduced him, as one might a troublesome child. + +“My cousin, Mrs. Trelane,” she said. She did not even mention Cylmer’s +name. + +Mrs. Trelane bowed graciously; if she had not been excited and +preoccupied at meeting Gaspard le Marchant’s daughter, on whom her stay +in safety and security at Marchant’s Hold depended, she might have seen +that Cylmer bent on her an uncomfortably searching stare. + +But Cristiane had turned toward him. + +“Good-by,” she said hastily; “so sorry you can’t come in.” And before +he could answer she had swept Mrs. Trelane into the house. + +Mr. Cylmer was dismissed in disgrace. + +Yet, as he turned away, he scarcely thought of it. + +“Now, what,” he said to himself, “does that woman remind me of? I never +saw her before.” Yet the carriage of her head, her long throat, was +somehow familiar; and as he thought there came to him the sudden vision +of a little rose-colored room, full of a haunting scent of bitter +almonds. + +“What nonsense!” he thought irritably. “Why should Sir Gaspard’s cousin +remind me of poor Abbotsford?” And then he stopped short, annoyingly +conscious that he must be making a fool of himself. + +For he remembered now that Mrs. Trelane had held a handkerchief in her +hands. He had smelled that smell of bitter almonds in reality; the +woman and her handkerchief reeked of peach-blossom. And yet he was +puzzled--and might have been more so had he known whose strange green +eyes had peered at him through the crack of a sheltering door. + +The woman in his thoughts was standing just then in her bedroom at +Marchant’s Hold, with her hostess beside her. + +“You must be tired,” Cristiane said; “do come to dinner in a tea-gown. +We shall be alone, for there was no one I could have asked to meet you +except Miles Cylmer, whom you saw just now.” + +“Miles Cylmer!” Mrs. Trelane turned her back sharply, in her sudden +sick surprise. + +“Mr. Cylmer, of Cylmer’s Ferry. He lives near, and he comes very often +when father is at home.” + +A new self-consciousness born of the afternoon kept the girl from +looking at her guest. + +“Come down,” she said abruptly, “when you’re ready.” + +The door had hardly closed behind her before Ismay, in the next room, +heard herself called. + +“What is it?” she asked, standing in the doorway. “Are you ill?” + +For Mrs. Trelane was sitting down as if her strength were gone, gazing +straight before her as one who sees a ghost. + +“Ismay,” she said, “that man who was here this afternoon, do you know +who he is?” + +The girl hesitated; had her mother known more than she knew about her +visit to the Palace Theater? + +“Do I know his name?” she parried. “No--why?” + +Mrs. Trelane rose, staggered, and sat down again. + +“I can’t look,” she said. “Open the door into the passage and see if +that girl has gone. Quick!” + +“It’s all right,” Ismay said, after a contemptuous survey. “Why? I +don’t see why you’re looking as if you were going to be seasick.” + +“Look here,” Mrs. Trelane said roughly, “do you remember the Abbotsford +business? This man who was here to-day is Cylmer, of Cylmer’s Ferry.” + +It was Ismay’s turn to stare with haggard eyes. + +“You don’t mean it?” she cried fiercely, but with the low voice of +caution. “You don’t mean to say that we’ll have to get out of here?” +How could she not have known him that day in Onslow Square? + +“I don’t know,” moaned the woman. A shudder shook her like a leaf. “Did +he look at me, or anything? I was too taken up--with the girl. I didn’t +notice”--her words coming in jerks. “Could you see from where you +were?” + +“Yes,” said the girl frankly; “he stared at you like anything.” + +“Get me a drink,” the elder woman said slowly. “There’s brandy in my +bag.” + +She swallowed it, and sat silent, with closed eyes. The color crept +back into her lips, and she lifted her head and looked at her daughter. + +“I’m making a fool of myself,” she ejaculated. “He never saw me, +never heard of me, any more than any one else did when there was all +that trouble. But it was that very Miles Cylmer who was Abbotsford’s +dearest friend, and strained every nerve to find out who the woman was +that--that was at the bottom of it.” + +Her eyes dilated till they looked black in her colorless face. Ismay +stared at her mother. + +“Do you think he ever saw that photograph I made you go back and get, +when you--found him?” she asked sternly. “If he did, you may have +trouble. He looked a determined sort of man, dogged, you know. But he’s +the handsomest man I ever laid eyes on!” + +“What does it matter what he looks like, if he is that Cylmer?” Mrs. +Trelane cried angrily. “I talk about life and death, and you go on +about the man’s looks. What do they matter to you?” + +“A great deal.” The girl’s eyes glittered very green to-night. “The +minute I saw him I meant to marry him. Do you suppose I’d take pains to +make him like me if he were ugly?” + +“I know you wouldn’t; not to save me from anything,” Mrs. Trelane +returned bitterly. She had good reason to know that no power on earth +could force Ismay to be civil. + +“But you’re talking nonsense,” she went on. “As things are, we must try +to keep the man from coming here. You can’t dare to try your hand on +him; we must steer clear of him.” + +“And set him wondering why we should try to avoid him? No, no! Let me +alone. Only try to throw your mind back. Did he get into Abbotsford’s +room before you had taken away that picture?” + +She looked like an accusing judge at her mother, cowering on the sofa +under her eyes. + +“Oh, Ismay!” the woman cried wretchedly, “I don’t know, I don’t know. +I went back for it--I was just taking it--when there was a noise. I +got behind a curtain. Some one came in, and went out again, without +noticing--Abbotsford”--her voice low, tremulous with weeping. “I took +the photograph and got out of the house somehow. I didn’t meet any one. +I must have been at home an hour before any one--found Abbotsford.” + +“Then why should you be so idiotic?”--jumping up in her relief. “It +could not have been Cylmer who came in----” + +“It was. He said so afterward.” + +“Well, he didn’t see you. As for the photograph, he couldn’t have +noticed it enough to know you by. You would have been ruined if you had +not gone back and got it, though!” + +“It was providential.” Mrs. Trelane breathed freer. + +“It was what?” cried Ismay. She went into a paroxysm of low laughter. +“Providence--and you! But I think you’re all right--you forgive my +smiling? I think he just stared at you because you and I are probably +in his way here; that was all. Only I wouldn’t let him see you in a +white evening gown; that might remind him.” + +“I wish I had never seen Abbotsford.” Mrs. Trelane’s tears had washed +channels in her powder. She looked wan and old where she sat. “I bore +the brunt--and Marcus has the diamonds.” + +“And we’re well out of it at that,” Ismay rejoined significantly. “For +at last I hope we’re rid of him. He’ll never find us here.” + +“He’d find us in our graves,” said the woman. “And you’ve got to manage +him. Don’t go and get into any mad pursuit of Mr. Cylmer, for if Marcus +caught you at it----” + +She paused, for Ismay was standing over her in a rage. + +“Marcus!” she said scornfully. “What do I care for your Marcus? I am +not bound to him; it is you that need fear him, not I! And as far as +you are concerned, what do I owe you? You neglected me, cast me off, +and when I came back to you, that madness about Lord Abbotsford came on +you. I told you not to go that day--I knew there would be trouble--and +now it may be going to ruin my whole life.” + +“What do you mean? You’re talking nonsense. And, considering you’ve +only seen Cylmer through the crack of a door, you’re pretty certain of +him,” cried her mother sneeringly. + +Ismay drew a long breath. + +“I’ve seen him before--never mind where,” she said. + +“And he may be Cristiane’s property,” was the angry warning. + +Ismay flung up her handsome head. + +“He may belong to all the saints in heaven,” she said, with her voice +hard as ice, “but he will come to me in the end.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE LUCK OF MARCUS WRAY. + + +Sir Gaspard le Marchant sat before an untasted breakfast in a Paris +hotel. + +He felt curiously ill; far worse than he had ever known himself; he +breathed with an effort that made his man servant nervous as he stood +behind his chair. Parker alone knew the secret of his master’s state of +health, knew that their journey to Rome had been put off first that Sir +Gaspard might consult a Parisian specialist, and then because the man +who bore his pain so bravely had not the strength to travel. + +“He looks pleased with Miss Cristiane’s letter; perhaps that’ll do him +good!” the man thought distressedly. “I wish he’d turn round and go +home.” + +“Parker,” Sir Gaspard said suddenly, and with almost his old +cheerfulness, “I’ve heard from Marchant’s Hold, and Miss Le Marchant is +very well.” + +“Yes, sir? I’m glad, sir.” + +“But I don’t think I’m feeling much better this morning; perhaps I’m +nervous. At any rate, I have a little piece of business to see to. Go +down and ask the proprietor if he could give you the address of some +good English lawyer, and then go and bring him here.” + +There were drops of cold dampness on his forehead as he finished +speaking. Parker, after one glance at him, went out with noiseless +haste. + +Yet, for all his pain, it was with a great thankfulness at his heart +that Sir Gaspard lay back in his chair. The letter from Cristiane had +been full of pleasant things concerning Helen Trelane and her daughter. +She was very happy with them, and if he did not mind, would he ask them +to stay on a little while when he came back. There was not a word about +Miles Cylmer in the letter; only praises of the two women. + +“So I can make it all right this morning,” the man thought feverishly, +“if only Parker can find the lawyer. And then I’ll go on to Rome.” + +His head felt light and dizzy with pain. He had but two thoughts, oddly +intermingled: to make everything easy for Cristiane, and then to creep +away to die where his love had died, so many years ago. + +He looked up in surprise as Parker came back. + +“I didn’t have to leave the hotel, sir,” he said; “there is an English +lawyer staying here, and I brought him up.” + +“You’re sure he’s all right--qualified--and that?” anxiously. “I don’t +want any trouble.” + +“Sure, sir. They know him well here.” + +“All right. Bring him in.” + +He looked at the stranger Parker ushered in with a momentary curiosity. +He was a very ugly man; tall, dark, thick-lipped, almost repulsive. But +he was well-dressed and clean-shaved, and moved with a certain air of +gentlemanliness. His voice, too, was cultivated. Sir Gaspard noticed +this as he introduced himself, and gave a card with his address in +London Chambers. + +“Mr. Marcus Wray,” the card read. + +The name meant nothing to Sir Gaspard, though his own lawyers could +have told him it was that of a clever man who sailed perilously +close to the wind, and had once very nearly been disbarred. Only his +cleverness had saved him; there were no proofs ever to be found against +Mr. Marcus Wray. His business in Paris just now was not too safe, but +he stayed at a good hotel and went about it so carefully as to pass for +a model of English propriety. + +He talked very little as Sir Gaspard gave his instructions. He +wished, he said, to make a new will, and draw up some papers for the +guardianship of his only daughter. + +“Please make it all short,” Le Marchant ended. “I had meant to have my +own lawyer do it when I got back to England, but----” he did not finish. + +Marcus Wray made no answer as he sat at a table Parker had covered with +writing-materials. The man was ill enough to have no time to lose, it +was plain--but not an inkling of that opinion showed itself on the +lawyer’s ugly, impassive face. + +The will was simple enough, yet at a certain name in it only an iron +self-control kept Marcus Wray from a sharp exclamation. + +So they had left London! And tried to shake him off. What a piece of +luck it was this man’s being taken ill in Paris! Without it, Helen +Trelane might have escaped him, and feathered her nest alone. Now---- + +“I beg your pardon, I did not catch that last.” + +Mr. Wray looked up with an unmoved face, though the beating of his own +heart was loud in his ears. + +Here was he, Marcus Wray, writing at the bidding of an utter stranger +words which would bring him the desire of his heart--aye, and gold to +gild it! + +He looked furtively at the pale, handsome man who seemed dying before +his eyes. Was this Helen’s last victim? Or could it be possible that he +was only a simple fool who believed in her? It must be, since he was +giving over his only daughter and heiress to her guardianship till she +was twenty-one. + +Well, even he had gone near to believing in her once! It was funny, +though, that this last game she had been at such pains to hide from him +should have been played straight into his hands like this. He held his +pen in air, looking at Sir Gaspard. + +“There is one thing, sir--if your daughter dies unmarried, or before +the age of twenty-one----” he left the sentence unfinished. + +“Unlikely, the girl is young, strong.” His hearer had winced. “But if +it were to happen, the place,” obstinately, “must go to a Le Marchant, +and Mrs. Trelane is the only one. It and the money can go to her, if my +daughter--but she won’t, she won’t!” + +“As you say, it is most unlikely.” + +Wray wrote hard as he spoke. The man seemed very weak and ill; better +to get everything signed and sealed as fast as possible. + +He rang the bell sharply for Parker, and sent him for the proprietor +and a well-known London clergyman who happened to be staying in the +house. They would be unimpeachable witnesses to the will; there must +be nothing doubtful about it. But Marcus Wray’s strong fingers were +tapping his knee with that curious hammering motion, while the two men +wrote their names. + +“What luck!” he thought, his eyes averted lest the gleam in them might +show. “All that money--for Helen--when this man dies. And he might die +to-morrow.” + +To Cristiane, the daughter, he never gave a thought. With a will like +that, and Helen Trelane knowing of it, she was not likely to come of +age to marry. + +And the money would be his, Marcus Wray’s, as the diamonds had been, +as anything belonging to Helen Trelane would be, at his nod. No more +slaving, no more risky transactions. The man rose abruptly and went +over to the window. He dared not think the thoughts that rang like +bells in his brain. + +Yet his face was absolutely quiet and gentle as he turned to see the +two witnesses to the will leaving the room, while Sir Gaspard, very +white and still, leaned back in his chair. + +“You are leaving for Rome, I think your man said?” The question was +kind, interested. Sir Gaspard was surprised, but he nodded. + +“You forgive my asking, but it seems a long journey,” musingly. “Might +it not be wiser to go home?” + +Parker waited breathlessly for the answer; it came loud, imperative. + +“No! I must go to Rome. I have to go.” He pointed to the signed +will, spread on the table. “Put it in an envelope, address it to my +solicitors, Bolton & Carey, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London. It can be +sent there, Parker, when I die.” With curious gentleness he put it +in the breast pocket of his coat, and Marcus Wray knew, with the +intuition of a man who lives by his wits, that there it would stay till +Sir Gaspard’s eyes were shut to this world forever. He shrugged his +shoulders as he left the room. + +“Rome--and he wants to die there! I wonder why. Bah! he can die now in +the gutter, for all I care. He might have paid me my fee, though. It +may be a good while to wait for the indirect harvest.” + +He mounted to his room in the fourth story and had barely time to +light a cigar before there was a discreet knock on his door. It was +Sir Gaspard’s man servant with a note. As he took it, Wray noticed the +curious likeness of the man to his master, but only for the instant. + +“Discarded wardrobe does it, I suppose,” he thought, as he shut his +door and opened the note. + + “DEAR SIR: Permit me to discharge my great obligation to you, with my + best thanks. + + “Faithfully yours, + “GASPARD LE MARCHANT.” + +Two five-pound notes fell from the open envelope, but Wray scarcely +looked at them. Instead, he stared hard at the careless, gentlemanly +signature before him. At sight of it a thought had flashed up in his +brain, so daring that even he almost feared it. + +But it was so insistent, and it seemed so safe. + +“Nothing more will be heard of it--if he lives! If he dies, I can +always say I acted by his orders--dying men do curious things,” he +muttered. + +With his door locked, the lawyer worked hard for two hours. When at +last he stopped, with a long-drawn breath, a second copy of Sir Gaspard +le Marchant’s will lay before him, on the selfsame blue paper on which +the first had been written. On the floor lay many spoiled sheets of +paper covered with imperfect signatures; on the will itself the name of +Gaspard le Marchant was exact. The man himself could hardly have sworn +he had not written it. + +The ticklish part was yet to come--the witnesses. Wray shut his teeth +hard as he realized that he dared not try any guesswork about their +handwriting. + +Yet when he had cleared away all evidences of his morning’s work, and +put the folded will in his coat pocket, his face was quite passive. +So far the second will was only an experiment, concerning no one but +himself. If it proved impracticable--Mr. Wray shrugged his shoulders as +he went down-stairs to luncheon. + +Yet, as he entered the long salle-a-manger he almost started. + +At one of the first tables sat Sir Gaspard, and he beckoned Wray to +join him. + +“I was tired of my own society,” he said--and if ever a man’s face was +weary it was his!--“so I came down. If you are not afraid of a dull +companion, will you lunch with me?” + +Mr. Marcus Wray would be delighted. + +He sat down and did his best to be amusing; by the time the sweets +appeared Sir Gaspard was smiling. + +At the far end of the room, behind the baronet, Wray saw the stout form +of the London clergyman who had witnessed the will. He was enjoying his +luncheon, waited on by the proprietor in person. Truly, whatever gods +there were stood friendly to the man who sat so calmly with a forged +signature in his pocket. + +“I have forgotten something,” he said suddenly. “If you will excuse me, +Sir Gaspard, for one moment, I have a little matter to arrange with the +dean there. I know he is leaving immediately.” + +Sir Gaspard nodded, and, with quick, noiseless steps, Marcus Wray had +joined the dean. + +“I regret having to trouble you again,” he said courteously, “but my +poor friend over there wishes a copy of his will left here with the +proprietor. He wishes to know if you will be good enough to witness it; +Dubourg also,” to the affable little proprietor. + +The latter produced pen and ink from somewhere with incredible +quickness, and the dean wrote his ponderous signature with a glance at +Sir Gaspard, who seemed to sit expectant of his emissary’s return. + +“The poor monsieur is of the dying,” the landlord said, as he added his +name. Wray nodded. + +“I fear so,” he said. “This is to be deposited in your safe, Mr. +Dubourg,” he added, in an undertone as the man preceded him across +the room to draw out his chair at Sir Gaspard’s table. “Sealed, you +understand, and to remain there! In case you hear of Sir Gaspard’s +death you are to forward it. Otherwise, nothing is to be said about it.” + +The little man bowed. + +“I understand, it is for making sure,” he assented. “The poor man +leaves us to-night for Rome.” + +Sir Gaspard, quite unconscious of the meaning of the proprietor’s +compassionate glance, retired almost on Wray’s return, to rest for his +journey. But that individual, whose business in Paris was finished, did +not take the mail-train for London, as he had intended. The motto of +his existence was: “Never desert your luck”--that luck of Marcus Wray +that was a proverb in the Inns of Court. To go back to London and dream +of a golden future would be to act like a fool; many a dying man had +lived to laugh at his heirs, and so might this one. + +A prescience that the time was heavy with fate bade the lawyer not lose +sight of the invalid. Instead of going to London, his cab was just +behind Sir Gaspard’s on the way to the station. His last act before +leaving the hotel had been to deposit his sealed document in Monsieur +Dubourg’s safe. On bad news it was to be at once forwarded to Sir +Gaspard’s solicitors in London. + +As the southern train rushed on through the night, Sir Gaspard, +sleepless on his comfortable bed, never dreamed that in the very last +carriage of the train his acquaintance of the morning slept the sleep +of the unjust, that is sounder than any. + +The last carriage--truly there was something in that famous luck of +Marcus Wray! For as the pale light of dawn grew in the east something +happened; what, there was hardly time to say. Only a jar, a crash; +then for most people on that train a great void, a blotting out. The +train had left the track; the engine was down an embankment; all the +carriages but the very last a sickening, telescoped mass of shapeless +wood. + +In that last carriage Marcus Wray was flung on the floor from a sound +sleep. The lamp had gone out, in the dark a woman screamed, and the +sharp sound brought back his senses. The train was wrecked! + +With a quickness beyond belief he was on his feet, had slipped between +his struggling fellow passengers, and out the window, his narrow +shoulders doing him good service. + +“Sir Gaspard--the will!” + +He ran frantically along the track, passing the dead and dying, +thrusting a woman out of his way with brutal fingers. There was light +now beside the coming dawn, the light of burning carriages; and from +the reeking mass came sounds to turn a man sick, who had time to listen. + +This man with unerring instinct found the carriage in which he had been +too poor to travel; it was to be entered now without paying his fare, +for the whole side of it gaped. + +In the light of its burning roof he dragged at a heap that looked like +clothing, but he knew that ten minutes since it had been living men. + +He lifted with all his strength, and dragged off the first figure of +the mass. As if he were searching for one he loved, he turned the face +to the light. + +A dead man--a stranger in a fur coat! He dropped the bleeding head as +if it were but stone. + +The next? He panted as he tugged, for the dead are heavy, and the heat +was scorching. This was a man, too, with his arms round another in a +last instinctive protection. Parker--and he had given his life for his +master! For the servant’s brains oozed warm under the lifting hands. + +Try as he might, Marcus Wray could not loosen the arms that were +around that inert figure that had been Gaspard le Marchant! Was he +dead--living? He could not tell. + +The heat was scorching the searcher as he dragged the two that lay +clasped so close from the burning carriage together. In its light +he knelt down beside them, gasping for breath in the cold dawn. Sir +Gaspard’s face was hidden on the breast of his faithful servant. As +a man who seeks a friend, Wray turned it toward him, tenderly, never +forgetting that anywhere in that dreadful place there might be watchful +eyes upon him. + +In spite of his caution, his breath came in a great sigh of relief. + +Sir Gaspard le Marchant lay with closed eyes and stilled heart, his +face uninjured, his clothes scarcely disordered, only something in that +strange machine we call a body out of gear forever. + +“Dead!” the man breathed it softly in the light of the flaming +carriages, but if he had shrieked it to the sky above him it could not +have sounded louder in his own ears. The sound brought back his caution. + +His long fingers groped deftly in the breast pocket of Sir Gaspard’s +coat, and the luck of Marcus Wray lay in his hand! + +The man was drunk with his success as he turned away. This will need +never appear. When the news of Sir Gaspard’s death was telegraphed to +Paris an hour later Dubourg would forward his will to Bolton & Carey. +Marcus Wray would be out of the transaction, except for being the +lawyer employed by chance. + +Now, the sooner he was out of this the better. He turned away, careless +whether the dead were out of the way of the fire or not. Sir Gaspard +living, had served him well; Sir Gaspard dead, might burn or be buried. +It was all one to Marcus Wray. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +“I WILL POSSESS HIM OR DIE.” + + +Ismay Trelane stood alone in the great hall at Marchant’s Hold, +immaculately dressed in tight-fitting, dark-green cloth that showed +every curve of her slim body and seemed reflected in her strange eyes. + +Her cheeks for once were flushed, and there was a curious light in +the glance that she swept deliberately over the luxury around her and +finally let rest on her own reflection in the old mirror that hung over +the wide fireplace. + +“All this for one girl!” she whispered. The scarlet of her lips paled +with the tight pressure that drew them together. “And she has had it +all her life! If I had had one-tenth of it and been brought up like +her with white frocks in summer and good warm serge in winter, I might +have been quite--a nice girl!” She laughed at her own image in the new +clothes bought with Sir Gaspard’s money. But though she laughed, her +heart was not merry. She had seen too much that morning of how rich and +respectable people lived. + +She had risen as early as she dared, too restless to stay in bed, +and made a slow, careful progress through the big house, fresh from +the housemaid’s dusters. The carpets, the silver, the carvings and +tapestries, all so solid, so different from those flimsy London +furnishings that had been her nearest approach to luxury, made her +close her white teeth hard together. They had the same blood in their +veins, Cristiane le Marchant and she, and the one had lived like this, +while the other--Ismay sickened at the thought of her own neglected, +hungry girlhood, that the price of one Turkey carpet might have made at +least bearable. + +“It isn’t fair,” she thought hotly, “but it’s the way they manage the +world. And now I have a chance the world shall pay me all it owes. +Shabby clothes that were too tight,” she checked off her list on her +fingers airily, “one-quarter enough to eat, chilblains--I shall charge +a good price for chilblains”--remembering her swollen purple fingers +and her shame of them; “hateful girls who sneered at my stockings and +the holes in them--they were generally all holes--and a mother who did +not care whether I was alive or dead so that I was out of her way. +I have all that to make up to myself, and I will do it with--Miles +Cylmer.” + +She started; she had all but spoken his name aloud, and standing behind +her fresh as day was Cristiane le Marchant. Ismay’s veiled glance took +her in swiftly. Her tailor-made serge was not new, but it looked as if +she wore it every day; not like Ismay’s own, as if it were a new thing +to be well dressed at breakfast. + +“They told me you were down, so I hurried,” Cristiane said quickly. “I +was afraid you might be starving, and I did not think you would ring +for breakfast.” + +“I always got up early at school,” said Ismay, her voice light and +hard; “but I dare say I shall get over it. Mother is tired; she said I +was to ask you if she might breakfast up-stairs.” + +“Of course; I’ll send it up,” Cristiane said absently. “Come along and +we’ll have ours,” linking her arm through the slender one that was as +strong as steel, and never dreaming that Mrs. Trelane’s daughter had +rejoiced exceedingly that a bad night had reduced her mother’s temper +and complexions to an unpresentable state. + +They had been two weeks at Marchant’s Hold, and never till now had +Mrs. Trelane left the two girls together. It was not safe, while Ismay +had that mad freak in her head about Cylmer, of Cylmer’s Ferry. A +chance word, a too hard-pressed question, might in those early days +have turned Cristiane’s growing liking for mother and daughter into +jealous distrust--that liking on which their safety and peace depended. +Mrs. Trelane worked harder to gain this one girl’s affection than she +had ever done for that of all the men who had loved her. With almost +superhuman cleverness she had warded off all mention of Cylmer’s name, +for who knew what wild thing Ismay might say? Mrs. Trelane felt chilly +as she remembered the ring of the girl’s voice that first day at +Marchant’s Hold. + +“If he belonged to all the saints in heaven, he should come to me at +the end.” + +It was no echo of her own voice, nor of Mrs. Trelane’s, and it made her +shiver. + +But this morning neuralgia made her forgetful; a chance sight some days +since of some words in Cristiane’s letter to her father left to dry on +the library table had soothed her soul to peace. She turned comfortably +to sleep in her warm bed up-stairs, careless that Ismay was at last +alone with her hostess. + +Cristiane was almost hidden behind the high silver urn and the tea and +coffee-pots. Ismay, as she began to drink her coffee, moved her chair +so that she could see the lovely face under its crown of gold-red hair. + +She waited till Thomas, the old butler, had supplied her with hot cakes +and cold game, and taken himself silently out of the room. Then she +laughed as she caught Cristiane’s eye. + +“It is rather different from school here,” she observed frankly. “Do +you think I might come and pinch you to see if you’re real?” + +“Indeed I don’t,” retorted Miss Le Marchant. “But I don’t see why you +didn’t like school. I found lessons with a governess very dull. Don’t +you miss the girls?” + +Ismay made a mental review of them; ugly, bad-mannered, eager to curry +favors with the principal by carrying tales of the girl whose bills +were unpaid. + +“I hated them,” she returned candidly. “You would have, too. Some of +them had warts on their hands and dropped their h’s.” + +“Oh, don’t!” Cristiane gave a little shriek, and covered her ears. “Why +did you stay there?” + +Ismay caught the truth on her lips and kept it back. + +“We had no money for a better school; mother never knew how horrid it +was,” she said quietly. “The nastiest thing about it was that all the +first class were in love with some dreadful man or other; one used to +be wild about the postman. I hate men.” + +“I don’t know any,” Cristiane said calmly, taking a large bite of +muffin, with her white teeth showing in a faultless half-circle. + +“What!” Ismay exclaimed. “Why, there was a lovely young man here the +first day we came.” + +Cristiane reddened. + +“That was only Miles Cylmer,” she said scornfully. “I’ve known him for +ages, but he is about as exciting as--as Thomas!” remembering her own +comparison of Mr. Cylmer to that worthy man. “He’s only a neighbor, and +a friend of father’s.” + +“Oh!” said Miss Trelane demurely. “He is good-looking.” + +“I never noticed him especially. He is often here when father is at +home.” + +The other girl made a mental comment, but she only said: + +“I suppose he wouldn’t come when you were alone?” + +Cristiane reflected. Miles had not been near her for a week, and, in +spite of her guests, she had missed him. + +“He has more amusing things to do, I dare say,” she said smartly. It +was so silly of Miles not to come just because she had refused him; +selfish, too, for there was a distinct blank in her afternoon rides +without him. + +Ismay smiled. + +“I believe you were horrid to him and told him not to come,” she +observed shrewdly. “Now, weren’t you?” + +“I don’t take enough interest in him,” said the other loftily. “I don’t +take any interest in any one but father. I wish he would come home.” +She looked out of the window, where the morning sun streamed in, over +the wide stretch of wintry park and great beech-trees. “This is a +hunting-morning; would you like to drive to the meet?” + +“I can’t leave mother,” was the answer. It would never do to have Miles +Cylmer see her seated in Cristiane’s high dog-cart for the first time +since that night in London. Somehow or other, she must manage to meet +him first alone. And as yet she had no idea even where he lived. + +“I suppose you can’t,” Cristiane assented disappointedly. “I will ride +over then by myself, but that’s dull.” + +“Haven’t you any near neighbors?” + +Both girls stood by the window as Ismay spoke. + +“Only Miles Cylmer, and he hunts,” said Cristiane crossly. “Besides, +even he lives four miles off, that much nearer to the meet than we do. +It’s seven miles to Stoneycross by that road you see there,” pointing +to a glimpse of a highway that was just visible on the side of a hill +far across the park. + +“Then he’s of no use.” Ismay turned into the room again to hide the +change in her face. Hurrah! she had got her bearings at last. If she +had to wait all day at his gate she would see him face to face this +very afternoon. + +“You won’t be dull if I go out and leave you alone? You see, I am used +to riding every day. But it is stupid for you,” said Cristiane. + +“Dull! I’m never dull.” Miss Trelane’s face wore that strange smile +that was so full of years and knowledge, her back still turned safely +to her hostess. Dull, with the prospect before her of hunting down +Miles Cylmer! She turned with quick, lovely grace. “Come, and I’ll help +you into your habit,” she cried; “I’m much cleverer than your maid.” + +“I think you’re wonderful; how you do your own hair as you do is beyond +me,” Cristiane said, as they went up-stairs. + +They were nearly of a height, and she ran her hand up the wonderful +flaxen waves that rippled up from the nape of Ismay’s white neck. + +The girl frowned sharply. + +“It’s hateful hair.” She moved her head away from the gentle hand. In +any case, she hated to be touched, and it was unbearable from a simple +little fool like Cristiane, who took her and her mother for decent +ladies. “Hateful! Some day I shall dye it,” and she slipped from the +other girl’s side and was up-stairs like a flash. + +Yet two hours after she was coiling and twisting that hair she had +said was hateful, with a care that made it look like golden threads +shot with silver. The dark-green, velvet toque she set on it made its +strange sheen more lovely; the green cloth coat with its velvet collar +set off to perfection the milk-white beauty of her face. As she turned +from the glass to draw on her gloves her scarlet lips parted in a smile +of triumph. Queer as her beauty was, it would move the heart of a man +more than Cristiane’s roses and cream, or there was no truth in her +glass. + +“Let me see,” she reflected, “four miles to Cylmer’s Ferry--he will be +at the meet and following the hounds--if they find a fox it will be +three o’clock or so before he gets home, perhaps later. There’s heaps +of time, but I had better get off before Cristiane gets home, or she +might be kind enough to go with me.” + +She bestowed no thought on the suffering parent she had been unable +to leave, nor had she visited her all the morning. The atmosphere of +Mrs. Trelane’s room, where scents fought with the smell of menthol, had +no charms for her daughter. The only pause she made was in the empty +dining-room, where the table was laid for lunch. The silver epergne +was piled with forced peaches and hothouse grapes, a bread-tray full +of crisp dinner rolls adorned the sideboard among a multitude of cold +meats. + +Miss Trelane stuffed two peaches into her pocket, inserted some cold +chicken that was ready cut between the halves of two rolls, calmly +wrapped up her spoils in a napkin, tucked them into her muff, and +departed unnoticed. + +“Wonderfully convenient, living like this,” she reflected, with a sweet +little grin. “Otherwise, Mr. Cylmer might have caused me to go forth +hungry.” + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +A KISS. + + +Ismay went out into the clear, soft sunlight, treading lightly in her +smart, thick boots, with joy in her heart. + +Things had played into her hands at last. Toward half-past two +o’clock, warm and lovely with her quick walk, she stood at Miles +Cylmer’s gates. They were heavy iron, hung from carved stone posts, +“Cylmer’s Ferry” cut deeply on them. She saw the significance of +the name, for a hundred yards in front of her a narrow river ran +sluggishly, cutting through Cylmer’s property for miles. There was a +high ivy-covered wall on both sides of the road, and the view, except +of the river, was limited. + +Miss Trelane glanced up and down. + +“Very considerate of Mr. Cylmer to have no lodge,” she observed aloud. +“A lodge-keeper and six children would have embarrassed me very much.” + +She marched deliberately to the ivy-covered wall opposite the gate, and +swung herself up with the ease of long practise over Mrs. Barlow’s wall +at school. She had come up-hill all the way from Marchant’s Hold, and +now from the top of the six-foot wall the country lay before her like a +map. + +She seated herself comfortably, and began with a capital appetite on +her lunch. As she took the peaches from her pocket she gave a little +nod of satisfaction. Far off down in the valley she could see the +hounds being taken home. There would be no late waiting for Mr. Cylmer, +since there had evidently been no sport to speak of. The peaches had +rubbed against her pocket and stained its smart green lining. + +“Bother!” said the girl, with the thriftiness of poverty. She turned +the pocket inside out to dry. + +“But the peaches are all right,” she added, as she finished them and +wiped her fingers on the fine damask napkin which she neatly bestowed +down a convenient hole in the wall. There were plenty more at Marchant +Hold, and it was greasy. + +For a moment her back was to the road. She did not see a man riding +toward her, and turned with a real start, to discover Miles Cylmer on +a big chestnut horse within ten yards of her. The sunlight fell on his +handsome, hard face, his tawny mustache, his splendid figure in his +red coat and white riding-breeches. The sight of him brought dismay to +Ismay’s heart. She forgot all she had meant to say in sheer foolish +excitement at seeing him. + +“I--I can’t get down,” she said childishly. + +Cylmer stopped his horse and sat staring at her in utter amazement. + +Who was this who sat on his wall like a lovely nymph, her water-green +eyes on his, her flaxen hair glinting like barley in the sun? There +flashed up before him the lights of the Palace Theater, a slim girl in +black who was hungry. + +“I beg your pardon,” he stammered in his surprise. Could there be two +girls in the world with such scarlet lips and strange eyes, for surely +this could not be the lonely girl he had taken home that night? How +could she get here? + +Ismay Trelane smiled in his perplexed face that slow, witch-smile that +was her best weapon. + +“Don’t you know me, Mr. Cylmer? I know you, you see, and--please take +me down!” She held out her hands entreatingly. + +Cylmer, like a man in a dream, swung himself off his horse and slipped +his arm through the reins. + +He had seen Cristiane at the meet, lovely in her blue habit, had ridden +up to greet her, and been smartly snubbed for his pains. Somehow it +had stung unbearably. And the joy on the face of the girl he had never +thought to see again was like balm to his wounds. + +Ismay, seated on the wall, leaned down and gave him both hands; her +eyes met his, strange and deep, with something in them that brought the +blood to his face. + +“I told you we should meet again!” she cried, with soft delight in her +voice. “Are you glad to see me?” + +Cylmer lifted her down, setting her safely clear of his fretting horse. +Her queer beauty dazzled him. + +“Very glad,” he answered slowly. + +For the first time in her life Ismay Trelane’s eyes fell before the +look of other eyes. + +Cylmer stooped and kissed her lips. + + * * * * * + +For a moment the whole world swung dizzily to Ismay Trelane. A golden +mist blotted out the bare trees and ivied walls; a sound as of many +waters was in her ears. She staggered helplessly, and from far, far +away heard a voice that was very low and pitiful. + +“My little girl, don’t look like that. I was a brute! Did I frighten +you?” + +Was it fright that made her feel her own blood running in her veins? +She did not know. With a sharp wrench she was clear of him, and stood +leaning against his horse’s shoulder, her breath coming fast and hard. + +Cristiane would have stamped her foot at him. Ismay only looked him +full in the face. + +“Why did you do that?” she said quietly, though her hand went to her +breast as if something hurt her. + +Cylmer bit his lip. + +“Because I----” he hesitated. The truth, because she was so fair, would +be an insult. + +“Never mind looking for a reason,” she said; and he saw that even her +lips were white. + +“You did it, and that’s enough. If you will move your horse out of the +way I will go home.” + +She shook from head to foot. He had kissed her, as a man kisses a girl +he has met alone at a music-hall, and she had kissed him like a nun who +kisses the cross. + +Her voice cut, but something in it made Miles Cylmer take off his hat +and stand bareheaded before her. + +“I won’t even ask you to forgive me.” His voice was low and sweet as +perhaps but one other woman knew it could be. “I behaved unpardonably. +Yet if you can believe me, I was so much more than glad to see you that +I--I forgot myself.” + +“And me!” she interrupted with a hard little smile. “You remembered me +as a toy: you greeted me as one. If it is of any interest to you I may +tell you the toy is--broken!” She made a little gesture and turned away +without looking at him. + +Cylmer, leading his horse, was at her side before she had taken ten +steps. + +“Don’t go away like this,” he said, a shamed color on his tanned +cheek. “I deserve all you can say to me, and more. I only want you +to let me beg your pardon. I won’t”--his keen eyes very sweet, very +honest--“even ask you to forgive me.” + +“It would be of no use if you did,” she returned quietly. “I never +forgave anything I had against any one in all my life. You were the +first person I ever knew who was kind to me, and now you have made me +sorry that you were.” + +Her even, level voice had an implacable ring to it. Cylmer, disgusted +with himself, went off on a new tack. + +“You looked so tired that night, and so childlike,” he said, with a +little pause before the last word. Ismay turned on him, her eyes full +of somber fire. + +“You thought me some little milliner,” she cried superbly. “Yet you +treated me there like a lady, while to-day----” she shrugged her lovely +shoulders as though she were at a loss for words. Yet presently, as she +went on, her tone softened. + +“I had run away that night. I had just come home from school and had no +dresses fit to wear. My mother had some one to dinner, and I was too +shabby to be seen. It was dull sitting alone, so I took all the money I +had and went out. The reason I was hungry was that I wouldn’t eat the +dinner that was sent up to me; it was horrid,” with a little laugh. + +“But it was a mad thing to do; don’t you know that?” he said +wonderingly. + +“I didn’t then; I do now.” Her self-possession had come back to her; +her smile had that indefinite womanly quality in it that had struck him +long ago, when he had been puzzled as to her age. + +“You mean I have taught you this morning! Will you give me leave to try +and make you forget that?” + +“You may never see me again.” + +“I will if you do not move to another planet,” remarked Mr. Cylmer +deliberately, “or tell the butler you are never at home to me.” + +“I cannot do either,” she said, with an indifference that he never +dreamed was imitation. “I have no butler, for one thing, and I don’t +mean to die if I can help it.” + +“My dear little lady, I didn’t mean that.” + +“Didn’t you? I do! I have a horror of dying.” She shivered suddenly, as +if neither the afternoon nor the quick blood in her veins could warm +her. “To die, and be put in the cold, damp earth, and not even know +the sun shone over your grave! I often think of it, just because it +terrifies me.” + +“You have all your life to live first,” he said, with a wandering +glance at her. She piqued him with her changes of mood. + +“Life is very amusing,” she observed calmly. “You see so much you are +not meant to see. Now I saw why you kissed me just now.” + +Mr. Cylmer’s bronzed cheek showed a faint trace of red. + +“I was an ungentlemanly beast,” he cried hotly. “Be kind and let us +forget it.” + +Ismay looked at him, and once more her beauty startled him. + +“Forget it, by all means--if you can!” she retorted. “But I don’t think +you will. Good-by, I am going home now.” And before he could speak she +had slipped through a gap in the hedge, which, she had seen as he came, +led by a short cut to Marchant’s Hold. + +“But you haven’t even told me your name, or how you know mine, or where +you live,” Mr. Cylmer spoke to the empty air apparently, but a light +laugh, sweet as spring, answered him from the other side of the hedge. + +“You can find out all those things by diligence,” returned a voice full +of mockery. + +Mr. Cylmer scrambled hastily through the gap in the hedge, reins in +hand, and his horse’s head pushing through behind him. + +“You’d better tell me,” he observed calmly. “I might tell, you know, +how you went to see the world one night.” + +“Ah, but you won’t!” She was suddenly radiant, suddenly conscious that +nothing on earth would have bound him to her like that kiss. “You have +too much honor, Mr. Cylmer. Now, I have no honor at all. I could tell +my mother that you spoke to me without any introduction.” + +He laughed, his eyes very sweet and kindly, as he said: “You won’t, +will you?” + +“No,” she answered slowly, “and if you ever meet me it must be for the +first time. You won’t stammer and be surprised or anything, will you?” + +“No, I think I can promise you that,” he said bluntly. “Only let me see +you; it was chaff, you know, about my telling tales.” + +The girl looked at him with hard scrutiny, and as he met her eyes he +could have cut his hand off for this morning’s work. For her face was +strangely innocent, and pitifully young to be that of a girl who was +allowed to wander about by herself to a music-hall. + +“My dear little lady,” he said slowly, “do you know that I can never +forgive myself? I don’t deserve your ever speaking to me or trusting me +again. And yet, I ask you to let me be your friend. Will you?” + +A little quiver shook her. Would he really be her friend? Yet, after +all, why not? But like a dream there rose before her the image of +Cristiane le Marchant, young, lovely, and rich; behind that the vision +of Marcus Wray, his thick red lips mocking her in her fancy. What could +either of them have to do with Miles Cylmer? Yet she was cold with +fright, standing there in the winter sun, lest Cristiane le Marchant +might have more of Cylmer’s heart than she knew, and lest Marcus +Wray might find her hiding-place with his secret that could make her +forswear the sight of Cylmer’s face for very terror. + +She drew a sharp breath. + +Cylmer’s face grew blank as he looked at her. + +“You won’t! You can’t forgive me?” he said gently. “Very well.” + +Ismay put her hand in his, but with the gesture of a woman, not a girl. + +“Be my friend, then!” she said slowly. “Promise me that you will +believe in me, and trust me. No one ever did that.” + +“I will trust you through anything,” he said, puzzled. “It is a +bargain; you are to forgive me, and I am to be your friend for always.” + +He clasped her hand hard, as if it were the hand of a comrade, and the +blood came red to her cheek. + +“Won’t you tell who you are?” he asked, smiling at the fancy that kept +her nameless, as he released her hand. + +“Don’t look so startled, it’s only the station bus!” For there was a +sound of wheels on the road behind him. It was a long instant before +she answered, and when she spoke she looked no longer the same girl. + +“I am no one--of any importance,” she said, with a languid nod; then +she turned away and was gone without even a good-by. + +Cylmer was forced to go through the hedge, outside of which his horse +was fretting and plunging with impatience. + +“I’d swear she never kissed a man before,” he mused as he mounted. “And +she’s right, I can’t forget it. I wonder who she’s staying with.” Not +for a moment connecting her with the strange woman at Marchant’s Hold. + +Yet the girl in his thoughts had at that moment forgotten all about him. + +She was running swiftly toward Marchant’s Hold, with a deadly terror +at her heart. It was senseless, unreasonable, yet the glimpse she had +had through the hedge of the occupant of the station bus was so like a +glimpse of Marcus Wray that she had turned sick. + +It was like waking from a dream of warmth and happiness, to find death +in the house. Yet it could not be that Wray had found them. + +“He would never think of us in a respectable house,” she thought, as +she hurried on. + +“But if he did, we have no more diamonds; we can’t buy him off any +more.” + +She reached an open field, below her in the level valley rose the +strong towers of Marchant’s Hold, with the flag of England’s glory +flying on the highest of them. As she looked the flag went suddenly +down to half-mast. Some one, a Le Marchant born, must be lying dead! + +Ismay Trelane, who hated death, would have stayed away for hours, but +she dared not. With lagging feet she came at last to the great hall +door, with its motto over it: “What Marchant held let Marchant hold,” +its pride a mockery, grim and trenchant, for there was a streamer of +crape on the door-handle. + +A deadly terror of being out there alone came over her. She pulled +desperately at the door-handle. If she had seen Marcus Wray he would be +on his way to Marchant’s Hold; she would die if he came and caught her +here alone. + +“Thomas,” she cried. “What’s the matter?” + +The old butler who let her in could hardly answer. + +“My master’s dead, Miss Trelane,” he whispered, “killed in a railway +accident.” + +“Dead!” she fairly staggered. That would mean turning out into the +world again. She ran wildly past him up-stairs to her mother’s room. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +A NET FOR HER FEET. + + +Mrs. Trelane, her face drawn and gray, stood staring out of the window. +As Ismay returned she turned with sharp relief. + +“Where have you been? Why did you go out like that and stay so long?” +she demanded fiercely. “I have been almost wild here, with no one to +speak to. Do you know that we’re ruined? That Sir Gaspard is dead?” + +The girl nodded. + +“I saw the flag half-mast--I asked Thomas.” Her face was suddenly very +tired. “How did you hear--and are you sure it’s true?” + +“True enough. Look here.” She tossed a telegram toward the girl, who +caught the fluttering paper deftly. + +“From Bolton & Carey to Mrs. Trelane,” the message ran. “Fatal accident +on the railway just before Aix. Have received wire that Sir Gaspard +le Marchant and servant are among those killed, and fear there is no +doubt it is not true. Break news to daughter. Will send particulars as +soon as they can be obtained.” + +“How did they know you were here?” + +“Sir Gaspard told them I was to be here during his absence. I know Mr. +Bolton--or I did when I was Helen le Marchant,” impatiently. “There’s +no mystery about that.” + +“Have you told Cristiane?” + +“No!” Mrs. Trelane flung herself into a chair and twisted her smooth +fingers uneasily. “She’s asleep. She came in dead tired and lay down. +Her maid is watching to tell her when she wakes. How can I tell her? If +I do it, it will make her hate me.” + +With quick contempt Ismay glanced at her. + +“On the contrary, it may be your only chance with her,” she said +angrily. “Tell me, had you any arrangement, any bargain, with Sir +Gaspard?” + +“None,” with a sullen shake of the head. “We were asked here on a +visit, you and I, ’till things could be arranged,’ he said. But I know +that we were here on approval, if you like to call it so. If the girl +liked us we were to stay on indefinitely----” + +“And you sit here when you know that, and run the chance of having that +maid whom she has had for years tell her that her father is dead!” +Ismay flung out her hands in exasperation. “Can’t you see that if any +one tells her but you or I we shall be outside of it all to Cristiane? +Move, please.” Mrs. Trelane’s chair blocked her path to the door. “I’m +going to tell her this minute.” + +With the grace of an angry animal, she was out of the room and up the +corridor to Cristiane’s door. Jessie, the girl’s own maid, opened it, +her face swelled with crying. + +“She’s asleep still, the poor lamb!” the woman whispered. + +With unnatural strength Ismay kept the contempt from her face; the +woman was in a very luxury of woe, and would have blurted out her bad +news, without doubt, the very instant her mistress awoke. What luck +that she had come home in time! + +“Oh, Jessie!” she said softly. “It’s so dreadful. And you must be +tired. Go and get your tea, and I’ll stay till you come back.” + +Jessie cast a glance backward at the bed. + +Cristiane, in a white dressing-gown, slept like a baby, her rose-leaf +lips just parted, her lovely cheek flushed. There was no sign of her +waking till dinner, and down-stairs there would be tea and muffins, and +solemn waggings of the head. Cook would be telling her dreams--she was +a great one for dreams. The prospect was too tempting. + +“Thank you, miss,” she said. “I’d be glad of a cup of tea. I’ll be back +in a jiffy; long before she wakes.” + +“Then you’ll be a clever woman, my good Jessie!” the girl thought, as +she nodded and passed silently by the woman, who stood respectfully out +of her way. + +She looked around the room, where a fire burned softly between brass +andirons, where the floor was covered with a pale-blue and rose carpet, +and the walls hung with blue silk that was covered with pink roses. At +the side of the bed, where she might slip her bare feet upon it as she +got up in the mornings, was Cristiane’s only legacy from her mother, a +great, white bearskin, brought long ago from farthest Russian snows. +Not one atom of the prodigal luxury about the room was lost on those +green, dilated eyes that stared so mercilessly. The very silver of +the toilet-trays and bottles, the white vellum binding of the rows of +books, the rose velvet dressing-gown lined with white fur that hung by +the bedside, each and all struck Ismay with a separate stab. + +“I will have them all before I die--all!” she said deliberately. “And +she’s got to help me, for now, at least, I can’t turn out into the +world again after I’ve seen this.” + +Noiselessly she turned and bolted the door; she would have no maid +coming to interfere with her work. With that same silent, sinuous grace +she walked to the bedside, and if there had been eyes to see her as +she knelt there they might have looked away as at the sight of a snake +ready to strike. + +Yet the hand she laid softly on Cristiane’s was utterly tender. +Perhaps the beauty of the gold-red hair that streamed over the +lace-trimmed pillow and the white satin quilt, the exquisite +unconsciousness of the lovely, girlish face, touched the onlooker in +some strange way, for her face softened miraculously. + +“Cristiane,” she whispered. “Cristiane, dear, wake up.” + +The girl stirred, muttered something with smiling lips, and was fast +asleep again. + +“Cristiane!” Ismay repeated; she touched her more firmly, for time was +going. + +“Yes.” The sleepy answer almost startled her. “Oh, it’s Ismay!” +Cristiane sat up, rubbing her eyes, drawing her hand from Ismay’s to +do it. “I’ve been asleep; I was so tired. Did you win a pair of gloves +from me?” + +Ismay’s eyes filled with tears; she did not know herself if they were +real or if she were merely warming up to her part. + +“I had such a funny dream!” Cristiane cried, with a little laugh of +pleasure. “I dreamed about daddy; he said he was coming home.” She +caught the look on Ismay’s face as she spoke. + +“You’re crying! What’s the matter?” The sleepy sound was gone from +the voice at once. “Ismay, what is it?” with both her hands on the +shoulders of the girl kneeling by the bed. + +“Mother has had a telegram. There was an accident----” Was it her own +voice that faltered so strangely? + +“Not from father--he’s not hurt?” the hands on Ismay’s shoulders fairly +bruised them. + +“Look at me, tell me!” Cristiane cried fiercely. “Is he hurt?” + +Ismay lifted her face, and saw Cristiane’s eyes, black, dilated, +imperious. + +“He’s not hurt!” she said dully; and then she flung her arms suddenly +round the girl who sat crouched in her white gown as though it were a +garment of fiery torture. “My dearest, nothing will ever hurt him any +more,” she said, in slow desperation. + +“You mean he’s dead!” The words seemed to come after an interminable +interval of time, in which the ticking of the silver clock, the +murmur of the fire burning in the gate, had sounded loud and somewhat +threatening to Ismay Trelane. With a face as hard as stone Cristiane +had risen from her bed and stood on the white bearskin, her eyes +narrowed, her lips set. + +“I mean he is happy”--as she had never thought in her life, Ismay +thought now for the words that would not come. “I mean he has gone to +be with your mother--till you come!” + +To the speaker the words were a childish fable, a lie; but they went +home. + +Cristiane swayed where she stood, and like a flash Ismay’s arms were +around her; but she seemed not to feel them. + +“What is that to me?” she cried, with a dreadful harshness, trembling +like a leaf. Over her shoulder Ismay saw the clock. It was after five. +At any moment some old friend might come and touch that chord in the +girl’s heart for which she was trying in vain. + +“Think!” she said quietly. “Put yourself in your father’s place. Your +mother loved him as you do. She died for his sake and yours when she +was but little older than you.” + +As she spoke, she was thankful she had drawn the story from her mother +one day in bored curiosity. “Do you think she did not beg him to hurry +after her? Do you think the years were not long to the man she left +behind? Think of the time when you were only a child and busy with +lessons and play; think how your father sat alone at night with his +sorrow; think of the things he could never say to her, and how he +longed for the touch of her hand many a time--and then say, if you can, +that it is nothing to you that they are together again, you that he +loved, you that she died for!” + +With a great cry Cristiane flung out her arms. + +“Ismay! Ismay! Help me to bear it! I know--I’ve always known--he wanted +her!” Tears came at last from her frozen eyes. She clung wildly to the +girl who held her. “But I never thought he’d leave me.” + +“God took him, Cristiane,” said Ismay, and as she said it she believed +it. + +“Tell me all you know, quick!” her voice thick with sobbing. + +With all the strength of her young, lithe body, Ismay lifted her and +sat down with her on her bed. + +“He was going to Rome--she died there,” she whispered. “The train was +wrecked at Aix. He was--Cristiane, it was night, he was asleep, and he +woke in paradise with the woman he loved so long!” + +Cristiane’s arms clutched her suddenly. + +“He didn’t suffer, tell me! I’ll be brave; he always liked me to be +brave.” + +Brave! Ismay could have laughed outright. If this were bravery, what +did you call the other thing? Not all death and hell could have made +her cry as Cristiane was crying now. + +“He never felt it, he never knew,” she answered, and if her voice +hardened Cristiane did not hear it. As if the words tore the very soul +out of her, she cried out: “I want father! Oh! I want my father!” + +Ismay Trelane at that cry for once was awed to silence. She stooped +and kissed the golden head that lay on her shoulder; kissed it with +a passion of pity, a sudden feeling of protection that was real, for +Cristiane le Marchant. + +A knock came on the closed door. + +“Tell them to go away,” Cristiane gasped. “Don’t move; don’t go. I +don’t want any one but you!” + +The leap of sudden rapture in Ismay’s heart made her clutch at her +side. This was what she had wanted. Her work was done as no one else +could have done it. + +“No one shall come in,” she answered softly. “Let me go and speak to +whoever it is for a minute and tell them to go away.” + +She laid Cristiane deftly on the pillows, and with noiseless swiftness +slipped into the passage, closing the door behind her. + +Mrs. Trelane was there, pale with nervous fright. + +“It’s that man Cylmer. He wants to see her. What shall I do? Does she +know about her father?” + +“Luckily for us, she does,” said the girl dryly. “Where do you suppose +we should have been if the maid had been with her and Mr. Cylmer had +come? She would have gone down and heard it from him.” + +“Why not him as well as any other?” asked her mother, with quick +suspicion. + +“Because I meant no one to tell her but me. Don’t you understand that +yet?” asked the girl sharply. Oh! how lucky she had been! But for her +it might have been Miles Cylmer Cristiane had clung to. Miles Cylmer +who had caught her as she swayed. The thought made Ismay sick, and for +another reason than the sake of her own bread and butter. + +“Shall I go to her?” Mrs. Trelane made a step toward the shut door. + +“No, better not! And don’t see Mr. Cylmer. It isn’t proper to see +people when there is any one dead,” she added. + +“I’m not anxious to see him, you needn’t worry. But he gave Thomas this +for Cristiane.” She held out a card. Ismay’s eyes flashed as she read +it. Was it thus that a man who was only a friend of her father’s would +write to the girl who lay prostrate with grief? + + “Be brave, dear. It may not be true. I am going up to town to-night + to find out all I can from the lawyers. I will be back as soon as + possible. Please let me try to help you. MILES.” + +“He must have seen the flag and come over at once,” she thought, a +wild, unreasoning terror at her heart that he cared for Cristiane. Men +were like that; they kissed one girl when they loved another. + +“I’ll give it to her. There’s no answer,” she said. And in the dusky +corridor her mother did not see that her lips had grown bloodless. +“Tell Thomas to say to Mr. Cylmer that Cristiane can’t see him. And +send up some tea or wine, or something.” She leaned hard on the door +for support. “I’m worn out; worn out!” She had been full of life five +minutes since, but now, when she must go and comfort this girl whom +Miles Cylmer had come in such haste to see, Ismay’s knees trembled +under her. If only she dared to leave Cristiane long enough to go to +him, to tell him----Bah! what could she tell him? + +Mr. Cylmer turned away from Marchant’s Hold perfectly unsuspicious that +the green witch eyes that had held his were those of no other than +Ismay Trelane. If he had known he might not have been the first to +spread a net for her feet. But what he did unconsciously she did with +meaning. His note never reached the girl to whom it was written. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +“IF I ASK YOU?” + + +Mr. Cylmer was not back at Marchant’s Hold as soon as he had expected. + +Three days after his arrival in London he was still there, and he sat +now in Mr. Bolton’s private office listening impatiently to the old +man’s precise sentences. He had been put off from day to day till now; +there was no news, nothing definite. Mr. Cylmer must excuse Mr. Bolton +for not seeing him, as he had nothing to communicate--and so on. Small +wonder that when at last he was admitted Miles Cylmer sat impatiently +in the client’s chair of Mr. Bolton’s sanctum. + +“The exact news is this,” the lawyer said slowly: “Sir Gaspard was +taken ill in Paris, and, being nervous, made a will, calling in a +lawyer who was in the hotel. The Dean of Chelsea, also a guest in the +house, and the proprietor were witnesses, and the will was placed by +the latter in his safe. A duplicate Sir Gaspard took with him on his +ill-fated journey. He left that night for Rome by the Mont Cenis route, +and at dawn the train was wrecked, just before it reached Aix. When I +say wrecked I mean there was an accident merely.” + +“Of course!” Cylmer fidgeted. What did it matter how the thing +happened; it had no connection with Sir Gaspard’s affairs. + +“In the sleeping-carriage, or just beside it, Sir Gaspard and his +servant were found by the guard, who had escaped injury and was able +to identify them, or, rather, the servant”--clearing his throat +hastily--“for the burning carriage had--well! the man knew it was Sir +Gaspard; he had noticed the fur-lined coat he traveled in, and there +were charred fragments of it around the body.” Mr. Bolton paused; +old friend as he was of Gaspard le Marchant, the manner of his death +sickened him. + +“Was there no one else in the carriage?” + +“One other man, a Frenchman. But he must have been caught in the +burning carriage and utterly destroyed. The railway people sent a very +clean report, and it has been corroborated by wire by the clerk I sent +over at once. He saw the bodies. I am afraid there is no doubt, for he +had often seen Parker. I was in the habit of sending him to Marchant’s +Hold on business. Sir Gaspard of late came to town very seldom.” + +“I remember that fur-lined coat,” Cylmer said unwillingly. He +remembered also the history of it; the sables of its lining had been a +present from Sir Gaspard’s Russian wife; it was for her sake that he +wore it. + +“But it was curious that he should have made a will in that sudden +way,” he protested. + +“Not in his state of health,” Bolton returned. “I saw his doctor +yesterday, and I learned from him that Sir Gaspard’s death was in any +case imminent. He had a mortal disease--and knew it. Personally, I +think he went to Rome to die there--at least he meant to do so. That, +you see, explains his making a will.” + +Cylmer nodded. + +“How did you hear of the will?” he asked. + +“I thought I told you,” patiently. “The will, with a letter from +Dubourg, the hotel proprietor, reached me yesterday. In it he mentioned +the Dean of Chelsea as one of the witnesses, and him I saw this +morning. It was all perfectly regular. The dean read both wills at Sir +Gaspard’s bidding. They were exactly alike. He thought him looking very +ill at the time.” + +“Poor little Cristiane!” Cylmer said involuntarily. “It is a great +responsibility for her, all that money and land.” + +“She is young”--with the unconscious cynicism of years--“the +world--life--will console her! But I could wish I had been left her +guardian.” + +“What!” Cylmer’s handsome face was blank. “Who is, then, if you are +not?” + +“Madam Trelane,” said the other dryly. “I can tell you that much +without a breach of confidence, for the dean will have told half London +by now.” + +“That woman he sent down to stay with Cristiane!” + +The words were irrepressible. At the mention of Mrs. Trelane there +sprang into Cylmer’s mind the memory of the only day he had seen her, +and once more he wondered why she made him think of Abbotsford. + +“Who is she? Did she mean to marry Le Marchant?” he said quickly. + +“My dear sir”--Mr. Bolton coughed dryly--“Mrs. Trelane was Helen le +Marchant, Sir Gaspard’s own cousin, and the nearest relative he had +except Cristiane. And she is said to be a clever woman.” + +“Where has she been all this time?” Cylmer said slowly. “I never heard +of her.” + +“In London.” There was no need to air all he knew of Helen Trelane. +Yet, in spite of his caution, there was deep distrust of her on his +face. + +“A clever woman!” he repeated quietly; “as you will see when the will +is read to-morrow.” + +Miles Cylmer got up, a strange look on his handsome face. + +“If he has left the money to any one but Cristiane,” he said with a +ring of reckless truth in his voice, “I’ll settle twenty thousand +pounds on her. I would marry her--but she won’t have me. Anyhow, as +long as I live she shall have all the money she wants.” + +“You are too hasty, Mr. Cylmer;” but there was a kind of pity in the +old lawyer’s eyes. “The child’s fortune is hers, but the reversion is +Mrs. Trelane’s and her daughter’s.” + +“Was Sir Gaspard a lunatic?” Miles cried. + +Mr. Bolton shook his head. + +“No; only a good man, who knew nothing of the world,” he answered +cynically. “Good morning, Mr. Cylmer. If you go to Marchant’s Hold +before I do be good enough to keep my confidence.” + +“I’m traveling down with you,” Cylmer returned with sudden haughtiness. +“I’ll meet you at the train to-night.” Yet as he turned he paused. + +“Has Mrs. Trelane a husband?” he asked. + +“Dead, years ago! A man who was his own enemy,” briefly. “She and her +daughter were alone and in poverty when Sir Gaspard found them.” + +“And paid their debts?” said Cylmer searchingly. + +“Very possibly.” Mr. Bolton was still negotiating with those unpaid +tradesmen, but he did not say so. “Mrs. Trelane was a very pretty girl, +Mr. Cylmer.” + +“Then she has developed into a very well-painted lady,” Cylmer +responded, and departed without more ceremony. + +“Trelane! It’s not a common name,” he thought as he went down-stairs. +“There must be some one in London who knows about her.” + +He turned into his club at lunch-time, and looked up irritably as old +Lord De Fort greeted him from the next table. + +“Sad news this about Le Marchant,” the neat old dandy said, tapping his +newspaper. “A young man, too. And not a relative to come in for all +that money but his daughter.” + +“His cousin, Mrs. Trelane--perhaps!” The last word with late wisdom. + +“Trelane? Not Helen Trelane?” Lord De Fort put up a shaky eye-glass and +stared at Cylmer. + +“That’s her name, yes! Why?” + +“Gad! So she is his cousin. I sincerely hope she’s forgotten it.” + +Cylmer got up and seated himself at Lord De Fort’s table. + +“Why?” he demanded. “Speak out. I only saw the woman once in my life.” + +Lord De Fort obliged him. Under the sharp tongue of the old dandy every +shred of honor and virtue fell away from Helen Trelane. Her life was +set forth in detail, till Cylmer bit his lip as he sat silent. This +was the woman to whom was given the guardianship of a young girl, this +adventuress whom even Lord De Fort despised. + +“She has a daughter,” Cylmer said at last, with a faint gleam of hope +that the girl might be different. + +“Who grew too clever and so was sent to school. I used to see the +child, a skinny imp of ten, going to the pawn-shop of a morning. Helen +Trelane was in deep waters then.” + +Cylmer got up to go, but something made him pause. + +“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “was this Mrs. Trelane ever a friend of +Abbotsford’s?” + +“What! The man who was murdered? My dear sir, I don’t know. What put it +into your head?” + +“It was just idle curiosity,” said Cylmer hastily. “I have no reason +to think so,” for, after all, he had no right to drag any woman’s name +into an affair like that. + +“Humph!” Lord De Fort gave a dry grunt. “I don’t think she ever knew +him. Mrs. Trelane is much too clever a woman to have ever known a +murdered man.” + +Cylmer’s head was dizzy as he left the club. To think of Cristiane down +in the country, away from every one, with a woman like that, in her +absolute power for years to come, made him burn with useless rage. + +A sudden thought came over him as he walked aimlessly down the street, +his features drawn with worry. If he could see the woman now, before +she knew of that iniquitous will, perhaps he could terrify her into +letting him buy her off. His promise to Mr. Bolton would not stand in +his way; that was only that he would not mention his knowledge of Sir +Gaspard’s will--surely the very last piece of information he would wish +to give to Helen Trelane. + +Mr. Cylmer took the first train for home. + +“I can make the country too hot to hold her, and I’ll tell her so,” he +reflected as he got out at the little way station for Marchant’s Hold. +But he was uncomfortably conscious that if she did not care, and said +so, he was powerless. + +Mrs. Trelane, in immaculate black, was seated cozily over the +drawing-room fire, outwardly calm, inwardly a prey to forebodings. She +never looked up as the door opened, and unannounced, unexpected, Miles +Cylmer walked in. She sprang to her feet, utterly astounded. Then she +remembered he had been Sir Gaspard’s most intimate friend. + +“It is Mr. Cylmer, is it not?” she said quietly, peering at him in the +firelight. “Have you any news?” + +He looked at her, at the tea-table where the silver glittered +sumptuously; at all the luxury of the room. It might all come to be +this woman’s own. Already she looked as though she were mistress. He +seemed not to see the hand she held out to him, and, white and smooth, +she let it fall to her black skirts. + +“No, there is no fresh news. It is all quite true, that is all.” His +voice rang harshly in spite of himself. + +Mrs. Trelane, looking at him, was somehow afraid. He looked as though +he had come for a purpose. + +“Poor Cristiane!” she said gently. “You would like to see her? I hardly +know--I am afraid----” + +“I came to see you!” This time he saw her quick start as the fire +blazed up. “I have just come from London. I met a friend of yours +there.” + +“A friend of mine?” she stammered. “Did they send you to me?” + +She had only one thought, Lord Abbotsford lying dead in the little +rose-colored room. Had anything come out? On a sudden her very throat +was dry. + +Cylmer had not sat down; she wished he would not stand over her, as if +he threatened her. + +“I have few friends,” her voice was wonderfully steady. “Who was this?” + +“Lord De Fort.” He looked at her masterfully. “Mrs. Trelane, you are a +clever woman. I think you will see that Marchant’s Hold will not give +your--abilities--scope!” + +Lord De Fort! It was he and his old stories that had made her shake in +her chair! She would have laughed aloud had she dared. + +“Lord De Fort hates me!” She shrugged her shoulders. “Have you come +down here to tell me so?” + +Her glance moved suddenly to a dark corner of the room. Did something +stir there? Or was it a curtain swaying in a draft? Cylmer was puzzled. +There was relief in her voice when he had implied that he knew what +would have overwhelmed another woman with shame--and at first she had +been terrified. What was she looking at now in the dark, over his +shoulder? + +He turned sharply. + +A slim girl, all in black, her flaxen head held high, her eyes very +dark in the fitful light, stood behind him, for once the witch-smile +absent from her mouth. + +“Mother, please go to Cristiane,” she said almost sternly, and Mrs. +Trelane without a word obeyed her. Ismay came a step nearer to Cylmer +and looked him in the eyes. + +“You!” she said, and the sound of her voice was like knives. “It is +you, who would”--she stopped as if something suffocated her. + +Cylmer put his hand on her shoulder, quick and hard. + +“What are you doing here--with her?” he nodded toward the door. + +“She is my mother,” the girl said simply. “I am Ismay Trelane!” + +In the silence neither knew how long they stood motionless. The girl +spoke first. + +“I heard all you said,” she uttered slowly. “I know--oh! I know--what +you meant. That we are not fit to stay here, my mother and I. Make your +mind easy; we shall be turned out when the will is read! We have no +money, nowhere to go; but that will not concern you.” + +Miles Cylmer felt suddenly contemptible. His righteous anger fell from +him like a garment. + +“You don’t understand,” he groaned. “You can’t.” + +“Oh! but I do. That old man told you to-day that we were poor, +disreputable. I tell you that Sir Gaspard found us starving, and he +gave us a chance; a chance to start fair, to pay our debts, to have +enough to eat and to wear! And then he died, and it was gone from +us--like that!” with a little flick of her exquisite hand. “You need +not threaten my mother; we shall be out of your way soon enough.” + +“Ismay!” he cried, involuntarily, “I could not know she was your +mother. What are you going to do?” + +She took no heed of his words. + +“Shall you tell Cristiane all you know? Or if I ask you”--there +was sudden passion in her even voice, sudden fire in her strange +eyes--“will you let us go from here as we came, just the decent, poor +relations that her innocent soul thinks us? She will know evil soon +enough. Will you tell her it is in her very house?” + +“I will tell her--nothing,” he answered slowly. “God forbid that I, +who promised to be your friend, should say the first word against your +mother.” + +Months afterward he knew that nothing on earth should have kept him +from speaking out. Yet to what good? The will was hard and fast; +nothing could be done to break it. + +He turned away from the pleading eyes as if he dared not look in them. +It was not till he was out in the frosty air that he remembered he had +never even asked after Cristiane le Marchant. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HER HOUR OF TRIUMPH. + + +The solemn memorial service in the parish church for Gaspard le +Marchant was over. Mr. Bolton had come away from it a puzzled man. +Helen Trelane and her daughter had sat facing him while the rector +read, and there was no triumph on either of their faces; only a +strained something that might have been despair. + +Could he have been too hasty? Did Helen Trelane know nothing of that +will, whose distasteful pages he must presently read aloud? + +Cristiane puzzled him, too. Why had she not had her father’s body +brought home to rest in peace with his kith and kin? Under her black +veil he saw that she sobbed pitifully, and saw, too, that her hand +throughout the service was fast in Ismay Trelane’s. Could he have +wronged them, mother and daughter? + +The old man coughed irritably as he sat in the library at Marchant’s +Hold, where Sir Gaspard had written that fateful letter to Helen +Trelane. Miles Cylmer, who sat there, too, as Sir Gaspard’s old friend +had a right, rose suddenly and aroused the old lawyer from his thoughts. + +The library door was opening; the hour had come for Cristiane le +Marchant; from now, good or bad, gentlewoman or adventuress, Helen +Trelane held her fate to mold at her will. + +And Cristiane came in first, slowly, reluctantly, as if to hear the +wishes of her father, who had been her all, cut her to the heart, now +that she would hear his voice no more. Ismay, her head held high as she +saw Miles Cylmer without seeming even to let her eyes rest on his face, +followed close behind. Last came the woman whom both the men standing +up to receive distrusted and despised. + +Calm, pale, handsome, Mrs. Trelane swept in, and read nothing friendly +in those waiting faces. + +Well, they would read the will! And then there would be the world to +face again for Helen Trelane. + +There was not even a flicker of her lowered eyelids as she sat down. +There would be no use in begging for mercy from men like these. She was +ready for dismissal, as a man who has lost all is ready for death. Mr. +Bolton, anxious to get his work over and be done, opened the envelope +containing the two foolscap pages that Gaspard le Marchant had never +signed. As he read, the silence of death was in the room. + +The world was going round dizzily to Mrs. Trelane as she listened. + +She, who sat there sick and hopeless, without a penny, was to have +the sole guardianship of Cristiane till she was twenty-one; was to be +allowed five hundred pounds a year for her life, to be shared with +her daughter; was--her heart fairly turned over in her breast as the +next clause came out--to be sole inheritrix if Cristiane were to die +unmarried, or without children, and in that case everything would be +Ismay’s in the end. + +She tried to speak, but there was only a queer little sound in her +throat; and opposite her, in her pride and triumph, sat Miles Cylmer, +who last night had insulted her when she was in despair. A hand of +steel clutched her arm at the thought. + +“Don’t look like that!” Ismay’s furious whisper was low in her ear, as +the lawyer went on reading unimportant clauses as to legacies to old +servants. “Play your game! Be careful!” + +No one else heard the words, or knew even that the girl had spoken. +Mrs. Trelane, with the paleness of death on her face, sat without +moving, as quiet and apparently as calm as when she entered the room. +Yet her heart was beating madly. + +“Safety, luxury, power!” it pounded in her ear. “Yours, all yours. A +dead past, a living present! No more duns, no more striving.” In sheer +terror, lest she should scream aloud in her joyful relief, lest it +should be written on her face that Gaspard le Marchant was no more to +her than a dead dog, Ismay tightened her warning hand till sheer pain +brought her mother to her senses. + +Once more the girl’s wits had been her salvation. As the lawyer +finished the short will and sat looking quietly at the neat sheets, +wherein he and Miles Cylmer were executors with the woman whose past +they knew, Mrs. Trelane rose to her feet. Her ghastly pallor, her +statuesque quiet, were magnificent as she faced them, only her eyes +were not on theirs. “Cristiane,” she said very gently, “this has +surprised me, and you, too! If you do not want me to live here and try +to make you happy, say so. And Mr. Bolton can perhaps make some other +arrangement.” + +Both men gasped stupidly in their amazement. The lawyer’s distrust of +her was already shaken--it vanished utterly at her words. Cylmer could +have killed her for daring to speak and propose what she knew could not +be done. And yet, as his eyes fell on Ismay, he could not help feeling +relief at the knowledge that she was not to be turned out as she had +foreseen. + +In the silence Cristiane spoke between her sobs. + +“No, no! Daddy wished it,” she cried out. “Oh, don’t go! I have no one +else, and I--I’m so lonely.” + +She crossed swiftly to where the elder woman stood waiting, and flung +her arms round her neck, where she stood faintly redolent of the +peach-blossom which had sickened Miles Cylmer as she entered. + +“You won’t leave me! I would die without you and Ismay! Ismay, who is +like my sister already.” Cristiane pleaded imploringly, and at the +sight of her young innocence, as she clung to the woman, it was not +in human nature that either of the men who looked on should repress a +start. Cylmer kept down a furious word, somehow, but he could not keep +from making a long step toward Cristiane, even though he knew he had no +right to tear her from the woman she clasped so closely. + +Yet some one else was more sick than he at the sight, though Helen +Trelane was her own mother. A touch gentle as velvet, more compelling +than steel, somehow had drawn Cristiane a yard away. + +“Hush, dear!” Ismay said softly. “Everything shall be as you say. But +let Mr. Bolton talk a little to mother.” + +She did not hold the girl; her touch was scarcely more innocent of +evil than her mother’s; and at the sharp flash of gratitude in Miles +Cylmer’s eyes her own were lowered angrily. + +“I suppose the will stands!” Mrs. Trelane was saying gently. + +“H’m! Yes--yes--of course!” Mr. Bolton returned. “If Cristiane did +not approve I suppose it could be put in chancery and guardians +appointed”--in his heart knowing it impossible. + +“But I do approve!” Cristiane cried imperiously. “It is what daddy +wanted, and what I wish, too. I will not have his will questioned in +courts.” + +All the wilfulness she had from her mother awoke in her; she looked at +the old lawyer with cried-out eyes that yet were steady. + +“You are sure, Cristiane?” Cylmer said sternly. + +“Sure!”--with a flash of her spirit. + +“You hear her?” Mrs. Trelane, gentle still, spoke to Mr. Bolton. “You +know that I stay, by her wish, not my own.” + +“By her wish!” he returned mechanically. + +“And the will!” Miles Cylmer murmured sarcastically, knowing she was +safe in her magnanimity, her self-forgetfulness, since no court in +England would doubt that clear will. + +“Then I will stay.” With a little sigh, as if she had been seeking +the right path, and at last found it, Mrs. Trelane moved nearer to +Cristiane; not very near, for somehow Ismay stood between them, her +eyes, that only her mother could see, blazing green with warning. + +She lowered them as her mother stood back, and was no longer between +her mother and the two men, and so did not see Mrs. Trelane for the +first time look full at Miles Cylmer. + +She had reason, since last evening, to hate him, yet it was not her +dislike that made him grow so pale. + +The merciless triumph in her hard blue eyes, whence a veil seemed to +have been lifted, the cold derision which said plainly, “Where are your +threats now?” troubled him more than the undying enmity that he saw on +her face. What would come to Cristiane in the hands of a woman like +this, who could act gentleness and magnanimity at one minute, and the +next show the true colors of an adventuress who has outwitted her enemy? + +Would she use her power to forbid him the house? Very likely, after +last night’s mad attempt to stay the tide of fate with a straw! + +“She will have her work cut out to do it,” he reflected, the muscles +round his mouth very set and grim. He moved quickly toward Cristiane. + +“You will let me come and see you sometimes,” he said very low, “even +now that you have new friends?” + +For he was sore and smarting that the girl who knew he loved her, who +had known him all her life, had never even given him a look since she +entered the room. + +She looked at him now indifferently. + +“If you care to come over, please do”--her voice quite cold and level. + +“You will let me do anything I can for you--you know I am always at +your service.” + +Cristiane’s lip curled, ever so faintly. If he were always at her +service, why had he never come, never written, when the dreadful news +was known? The new friends that he grudged her were more faithful than +the old, very surely! When she had wanted comfort it was not Miles +Cylmer who had given it. + +“I don’t think I want anything now,” she said proudly, never dreaming +of how he had tried to do his best for her. “But, of course, come when +you please.” + +She went quietly forward to speak to Mr. Bolton, and for a moment +Cylmer stood silent, sick at heart, though he had made his point, and +the door of Marchant’s Hold was not shut to him. Ismay’s eyes were deep +and green as she watched his face; he had made a point for her, too. + +“He will come to see Cristiane,” she thought triumphantly; “he shall +stay to see me!” She had no longer any fear lest her mother should +be connected in his mind with that missing photograph. She was too +different in her decorous black from the white-gowned, bare-armed woman +of the picture. + +She beckoned Cylmer close to her with a little backward motion of her +head. “Make it up with mother,” she said under her breath, Cylmer’s +broad shoulders shielding her from the others. “She will never really +forgive you, but she will pretend to.” + +Cylmer nodded. + +“And you?” he said uncomfortably. + +Ismay’s eyes met his, and for once they were true. + +“I am going to take care of Cristiane.” She little knew of all she +meant when she spoke; of the days of watching, the nights of fear; but +long after Miles Cylmer, remembering this day, knew that in her fashion +she had kept her word. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MORE TREACHERY. + + +“Do you think I should have a crape veil?” Mother and daughter sat +alone in the comfortable sitting-room that was Ismay’s own, when a +week had passed after the reading of the will and their security was +no longer a matter for ceaseless, exulting discussion. Around both of +them lay a wild confusion of dressmakers’ patterns, bits of black stuff +of all sorts, sketches of gowns which had been, till now, only dreams +of Ismay Trelane. Yet she pushed them suddenly off her lap and yawned +listlessly. A whole week had gone by without a sign of Cylmer; and yet +she knew he had patched up a hollow truce with her mother. + +“Oh, I wish I knew if he were in love with Cristiane,” she mused +moodily. “I could do more.” + +“Do listen, Ismay, and don’t look so sulky!” Mrs. Trelane said smartly. +“Do you think I had better have a crape veil or plain net?” + +“Crape. It hides your face more!”--with unpleasant significance. “Ugh! +How I hate mourning. Mother, where is Cristiane?” + +“Where she always is; sitting moaning in that library,” was the answer. +“She is so deathly in her plain black serge she makes me cold. And she +won’t talk of anything but her father’s grave, and how we must go to +Rome in the spring. I never heard of such nonsense as having him moved +there. As if he knew where he was buried!” + +“I don’t know that I would have dug him up, either,” said Ismay; “but +don’t, for Heaven’s sake, say so.” + +A faint, far-off sound, which might have been the clang of the +door-bell down-stairs, reached her as she spoke. Mrs. Trelane, not +nearly so quick-eared, went on gloating over the vision of a soft black +silk gown, that should glitter with jet, all veiled with cloudy crape. +She did not see Ismay stiffen in her chair. + +“It must be tea-time,” she suggested absently. “Perhaps you had better +go and find Cristiane.” + +“Perhaps I had.” Life in her eyes, the blood scarlet in her lips, Ismay +was up like a flash. It had been the door-bell; she had heard the great +hall door close dully in the silent house. And a visitor could be none +other than Miles Cylmer. Every drop of her blood ached to see him, and +there was another reason that hurried her through the passages. Miles +must not be allowed to see Cristiane while that scribbled card of his +reposed in Ismay’s pocket. His hand had written it, and Ismay Trelane +had lacked strength to burn the dangerous thing. + +“Even if he does tell her he’s called twice, she won’t believe him +now!” she reflected, pausing at the library door. + +It was shut. From inside came a murmur of voices. Cristiane’s strained, +wild, almost joyful; then another--oh! it was not Miles Cylmer’s. + +Sick with terror, Ismay clung to the door-handle. Whose voice was it +that she heard, cold, suave to oiliness? Surely she was dreaming; it +could not be that voice here! + +“Tell me, tell me everything!” Cristiane was crying, but her voice, +broken and piercing, was distinct to the girl whose feet were failing +under her. + +“All I know.” The answer was plain, and conviction struck heavy at +Ismay’s heart. + +It was he, Marcus Wray! But how had he got here, and what was he +telling Cristiane? His voice went on low and smooth, his words she +could not hear. And she dared not go in; she, Ismay Trelane, who had +said she feared nothing, was cold with fear now. She got up-stairs, +her knees trembling under her as she stumbled into the room where Mrs. +Trelane sat, gloating over her toilets. + +The blood gone from her cheek, her heart hammering at her side, Ismay +clutched her by the shoulder, her shut throat so dry that she could not +speak. + +“Are you crazy?” Mrs. Trelane cried angrily. “You hurt me; let me go.” + +Ismay shook her fiercely. + +“Go down, quick!” she muttered. “He’s there with Cristiane. He’s +telling her something--it must be about us. You must go and stop him.” + +“Him! Who?” + +Ismay’s grasp slackened. + +“Marcus Wray.” + +For a minute they looked at each other, the elder woman’s face turning +from unbelief to gray despair. How had her enemy found her? + +“Go! There’s no time to waste,” the girl said sharply. “I knew he’d +hunt us down. I didn’t think it would be so soon.” + +Mrs. Trelane drew a long breath. + +“Perhaps he will find it is different now,” she said. “We can keep him +quiet with money; oh, I know we can!” + +“It may be too late--now. And you once kept him quiet with +diamonds!”--contemptuously. + +“I’ll do what I can.” + +She was not so frightened as Ismay, though she knew Marcus Wray. +Startled she was at his finding her, yet surely now that she had money +and position she could make terms with a man who lived by his wits. A +sense of power had grown in her since the day she had looked defiance +into Miles Cylmer’s eyes; she felt strong now, even for Marcus Wray, +as she opened the library door and went in gracefully, languidly, as +though she expected nothing. + +Yet what she saw was staggering enough. Marcus Wray, in the flesh, sat +with his back to her, faultlessly dressed, as usual, his black hair +brushed to satin. Facing him was Cristiane, her checks crimson, her +violet eyes shining softly, the dyes of one moved to the depths. + +“Dear Mrs. Trelane”--the girl had started up and run to her--“I was +just going to send for you. This gentleman has been telling me things +I--I was sick to hear.” + +Helen Trelane’s upper lip was wet. + +“What things, dear?” she managed to say, as Marcus Wray turned round +and faced her. Cristiane’s hand was cold in hers, and the touch brought +back the deadly chill of Abbotsford’s hand as he lay in the little +rose-colored room. But she would not wait for an answer. + +“Mr. Wray!” she exclaimed; and, to her credit, there was pleased +surprise in her voice. “You here? I did not know you knew my little +ward!” + +Marcus Wray came forward and took the loose, lifeless hand that she +could not make steady, Cristiane clinging to the other the while. + +“It is an unexpected pleasure for me,” he murmured, with smooth +untruth. “I did not know Miss Le Marchant was your ward. I came to tell +her”--he paused almost imperceptibly, noting the tiny drops round Helen +Trelane’s mouth--“that I was with her father--at the end.” + +His eyes were on hers, in cold warning; yet, in spite of the hidden +threat there, the woman breathed again. At least, he had not been +telling Cristiane of Abbotsford--and the diamonds. + +“I did not know you knew Mrs. Trelane.” Cristiane glanced wonderingly +from one to the other. + +“You see, Miss Le Marchant,” he said courteously, “Mrs. Trelane and I +have been--friends--for some years.” + +“We have known each other--well, for a long time.” For her life, Helen +Trelane could not keep the angry scorn from her voice, but Cristiane +was not woman enough to hear it. + +“I am so glad,” she said, with a little sigh of pleasure, “for now +perhaps Mr. Wray will spend the night. I have so much to ask him--it +seems like a last message”--with a quiver of her lovely lips--“from +daddy.” + +Mrs. Trelane sat down, Cristiane beside her, on the wide sofa by the +fire. Her brain was whirling. Was it possible that Marcus Wray was +telling the truth, or was it all a lie to get into the house? + +“Please tell it all again,” Cristiane said pleadingly, and Marcus +Wray obeyed her, the story of the accident to the train only slightly +altered by his being with Sir Gaspard, having accompanied him from +Paris, instead of having followed him in that lucky last carriage. + +“It was all so quick he felt nothing,” he ended gently. “I would have +saved him if I could.” + +“Have you been in Aix ever since?” Mrs. Trelane asked dryly. + +Marcus Wray made his last, best point with Cristiane. + +“I have been to Rome,” he responded. “There was a telegram from Sir +Gaspard’s lawyers that he should be buried there, and I, as his only +friend, went, too, and saw him laid in his last resting-place. He had +told me, in Paris, that he would like to be buried in Rome----” + +“But was he ill in Paris?” Cristiane cried. + +“Very ill, I am afraid,” Wray answered gently. “He spoke of his wish, +at all events, and so I saw that it was fulfilled.” He drew out a +pocketbook and took some violets from it that were sweet still. + +“These are from your mother’s grave”--his voice reverential, softly +thrilled, he put them into Cristiane’s hand. “And he lies beside her.” + +But the tiny purple scented things fluttered to the ground, the very +flood-gates of her heart opened, she sobbed on Mrs. Trelane’s shoulder, +torn with her grief. + +“Oh, if I could go, too!” she moaned. “Father, father, if I could go, +too.” + +Mrs. Trelane caught the girl to her. + +“Darling, don’t cry like that; please don’t!” she said authoritatively. +“Come with me; come to Ismay.” + +She cast an indignant look at Marcus Wray. Why did he harrow the girl +with his lies? + +“Don’t let him go,” Cristiane gasped. “I want to ask him something.” + +“I will wait.” Marcus Wray’s voice and glance turned Mrs. Trelane’s +indignation to terror. + +Somehow she got Cristiane up-stairs, with the aid of Jessie, who was +all sympathy at the quick words Mrs. Trelane whispered. + +“My lamb, you must rest!” the woman said pityingly. “You shall see the +gentleman to-morrow. Come with Jessie now.” + +As the girl went to her room, worn out, Mrs. Trelane forgot to send +Ismay to soothe her; forgot everything on earth but Marcus Wray. +Cristiane was out of the way; it did not matter where Ismay was. + +She little knew how those early morning inspections of Ismay’s had +familiarized her with every room and nook and passage of the house. Nor +that a door opening into the library from the drawing-room was masked +by bookshelves on one side and curtains on the other, and had warped so +that it could never be quite closed from the weight of the shelves on +it. But Ismay knew! + +Crouched tailor-fashion on the floor, she had heard from her +hiding-place every word of Marcus Wray’s, and her quick brain was +working, as she waited for her mother’s return, like a detective’s on a +clue. + +“It was not to tell Cristiane that drivel that he came,” she thought +nervously, almost afraid to breathe, lest his quick ears should know +it. “There’s something more. Oh, I wish mother had listened to me and +never gone to Lord Abbotsford’s.” + +Her mother’s voice cut on her ears as the door from the hall closed +behind her. + +“You have nearly killed the girl with your lies,” she cried. “Why +couldn’t you come and ask for me, instead of playing a game like that? +I know quite well you came to see me.” + +“You are--partially--right!” Cristiane would not have recognized the +voice, so slow and insulting. “I did come to see you. But I did not +tell lies, but truth--embroidered.” + +“You knew I was here,” she retorted angrily. “You did!” + +“I did”--with amused mockery. + +“Then what do you want of me? Do your worst and go. I tell you I will +not live like this, to be bullied by you!” + +“Whom once you bullied,” the man answered quietly. “Sit down, Helen, +and don’t scream your conversation. I am here as your friend.” + +“My friend! How?” + +But Ismay heard the soft rustle of silks as Mrs. Trelane sat down. + +“I’ll tell you, only listen and be quiet. I was with Sir Gaspard +in Paris, but by chance, as a lawyer, not as his friend. Do you +understand?” + +“No.” Very low, and it was well Ismay could not see how her mother was +cowering before Marcus Wray’s contemptuous eyes. + +“Don’t you? Well, I made that will. Now, do you know what brought me +here?” + +“To make me pay you to go away”--bitterly. + +“No, not that. I do not mean to go away; and what good would the +pittance you could screw from five hundred a year be to me? I am going +to pay you short visits often; the girl likes me----” + +“Mark,” she broke in, “what for? Why do you want to come to a dull hole +like this if it was not to get money out of me?” + +A thought that sprang in her suddenly made her gasp, and then speak +louder. + +“Or do you want to make love to Cristiane, and marry her, and have me +turned out by betraying all you know?” + +“I don’t mean anything out of that exhaustive catalogue”--coolly. +“Let me recall a clause of the will to your memory: ‘If my daughter +Cristiane should die unmarried or without children, the property and +all moneys of which I am possessed shall go to my only remaining +relative, the aforesaid Helen Trelane, reverting on her decease to her +only daughter, Ismay Trelane.’ Now do you see my meaning?” His voice +was low as caution could make it; his eyes spoke terrors that could not +be said even to the wretched woman before him. + +With a dreadful, strangled wail she was on her knees beside him. + +“Mark, Mark! Would you make me a murderess?” + +His eyes burned into hers as he stooped closer to her, where she shook +on her knees. + +“What are you now, if I speak out?” he said slowly. “You can take your +choice.” + +“I can’t do it! It would be madness. She is young. Oh! for God’s sake, +say you didn’t mean it.” + +“Mean what? I said nothing. You need do nothing. But if that happens +you are free. Why, you fool! Do you think I want you to give her a +dagger?” + +“Marry her; let me go, and marry her! You’d be rich!” + +“I am going to marry Ismay,” said Marcus Wray. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +COILED TO SPRING. + + +Just how long she sat crouched in the dark Ismay Trelane never knew. +She heard a bell ring and lamps brought that shone through the chink +straight on her. Then there was a tinkle of glasses, and, as a bottle +was opened with a sharp explosion, she dared to steal away. + +“Oh, what wickedness! I never dreamed of such wickedness,” she thought, +gaining her own room and locking herself in, as though Wray might come +to seek her. “But he sha’n’t do it. I swear he sha’n’t do it, unless he +kills me first!” + +For she knew that somewhere, somehow, death would be lurking in her own +house for Cristiane le Marchant; not now, but later on, when people had +ceased to talk of Sir Gaspard’s death, and his strange will. + +Curiously enough, now that she knew the real danger, all her courage +had come back to her. It was with nerves of steel that she sat +thinking, thinking; her eyes gleaming green in the darkness like a +watching leopard’s, that waits to kill. + +“What shall I do? I can’t let mother know I heard--she would tell him, +and I wouldn’t have any chance.” Her anguish almost broke out into a +cry. “Oh! what have I done to have such a mother?”--her teeth gritting +as she kept back the words. “And he will marry me then, will he? He +will marry a dose of poison, and I will hang for it first! To sit there +in cold blood and talk of murder--and she so young.” She rocked to and +fro. Cristiane le Marchant was in her way, but that was a thing to +fight and triumph over. Not even to marry Miles Cylmer would Ismay let +that awful scheme of death be played out. + +And her mother had begged to him, not defied him; that cry of “Mark, +Mark!” still rang in the daughter’s ears. Could it be true what he +said, that it was she who had poisoned Abbotsford? Had her mother +managed to deceive even her when she swore she had no hand in it? + +“I will find out!” The girl’s dumb lips were awful in the dusk. “I will +make Marcus Wray a thing the world shudders at before I am done. I will +take care of Cristiane,” she moaned sharply, remembering how she had +said these very words to Cylmer. + +“Oh, you’ll love me in the end,” she panted, as though he could hear +the thought in her brain. “I would die for you; surely you’ll love me +in the end!” + +Frightened at her own passion, she got up in the dark and bathed her +face in cold water, and washed the hands that were soiled from the dust +in her ambush. Her mother would wonder, if she came in before dinner +and found her in a dress all gray with dust. + +She made a careful toilet, that she might be ready when the gong rang +for dinner, and looked at herself in the glass. But her own eyes were +dreadful to her, for they were the eyes of a hunted beast at bay. She +turned quickly from the glass. She could not think if she saw her own +face, and think she must before she had to meet Marcus Wray. + +She opened the window to the bitter winter air, and its chill cleared +her brain. + +First, there was that matter of Lord Abbotsford, and the hold it had +given Wray on her mother. He must have proof of what the latter denied, +or she would not be in such terror of him. The thought brought no new +terror to Ismay Trelane; true or not, the accusation was Marcus Wray’s +weapon, and she must look for one of her own that would turn its edge. + +Then there was Cylmer. He, too, would be against her mother if he knew +all, and Wray would stick at nothing if he once knew that Ismay loved +another man. He must know nothing of Cylmer; yet, if he stayed here, +how was he to be kept in the dark? + +And Cristiane? Suppose Ismay’s dull suspicion were true, and Cylmer +loved her, why should she live to come between him and Ismay Trelane? + +The girl, sitting, with clenched hands, on her bed, answered her own +question. + +“Because I hate, hate, hate Marcus Wray!” she whispered hoarsely. +“Because he shall never have a penny of Sir Gaspard’s money, nor my +little finger, to call his own. I must carry my own sins. I will not be +made to help carry Marcus Wray’s! Cristiane----” She went to the glass +again, and this time she did not flinch. “Cristiane cannot keep any man +from me! I will have it all, all, from marrying Miles Cylmer to beating +Marcus Wray at his own game.” + +For there faced her in the glass her own beauty, strange and glorious. +Not a curve of her milky cheeks, a wave of her flax-white hair, a line +of her scarlet mouth was lost on her. She gazed steadily into her own +eyes in the mirror till it seemed as if a soul not her own gazed back +at her from them. They were no longer the eyes of Ismay Trelane, a girl +not eighteen years old, but those of a woman who had lived and loved +and known the very wisdom of earth long ago, when the world was very +young. + +The old, old smile curved the girl’s lips as she turned away. + +There was her weapon to fight Marcus Wray--her beauty, her wits, her +self-reliance that should never again fail her as it had failed her +to-day. + +“I shall manage them all!” She flung back her lovely head triumphantly, +securely. “Who is Cristiane that I should be afraid of her, when he can +look at me? She shall help me with him! She shall be the bait that will +bring him to me. And I will not go to him with blood on my hands to +save Marcus Wray.” + +Not even to herself would she own that in spite of herself Cristiane +had grown dear to her, for to care for any one but oneself and a man +was to be a fool, to Ismay Trelane. Her mother--bah! Her mother was +safe enough while her enemy was playing for such high stakes. + +The only danger was lest Wray might think things about Cylmer, and +forget his caution in a mad rage of jealousy. That thick, yellow skin, +those dark red lips bore the very trade-mark on them of the most +ungovernable passion in the world. + +“It is I who must take care of that,” Ismay mused. “And before I am +done, it is Marcus Wray that shall tremble for his skin, not I, nor my +mother, nor Cristiane.” + +She went down-stairs as calm as a lake at dawn; cool and silent +she bowed to Marcus Wray where he stood with her mother in the +drawing-room, dressed for dinner. + +She had never seen him in evening clothes, and he was more repulsive in +the plain black and white than she had ever dreamed he could be. + +“What! You don’t shake hands?” he said, with amusement. + +Cristiane was not coming down, and Mrs. Trelane looked at her daughter +as if she longed to slap her. + +“Don’t be silly, Ismay!” she snapped. + +“Let her alone,” Wray said quietly. “It will come to the same thing in +the end. The harder it is to get a thing, the more I enjoy it.” + +Even Mrs. Trelane felt cold at his hideous, gloating look at her +daughter, but Ismay glanced at him with calm distaste, to which her +beauty lent a sting. + +“Let us go to dinner,” she said, as if he were beneath any direct reply. + +And as she sat at his right hand, opposite her mother, not even the +luck of Marcus Wray could warn him that a white adder, with gleaming +emerald eyes, coiled up to spring, would have been a safer neighbor for +him than Ismay Trelane. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CIRCE’S EYES. + + +Nothing in the whole house was good enough for Marcus Wray. Ismay saw +that as soon as she came down to breakfast. + +Cristiane, behind the great urn, was changed from yesterday; a peace +was on her face, and for the first time since the news of her father’s +death her eyes bore no traces of a night spent in tears. Marcus Wray +had built better than he knew when he came as the one friend who had +done the very last things for Gaspard le Marchant. The news had spread +like wild-fire through the household. Thomas, the old butler, waited +on the strange gentleman from London with a noiseless assiduity he had +never shown to either of the Trelanes. + +“Must you go this morning?” Cristiane said wistfully. “I suppose there +is very little temptation to stay in a quiet house like this!” + +“There is every temptation,” Wray returned, with the frankness that was +so good an imitation, “to a tired man who has found old friends here +and the kindest of hospitality”--with a glance at Cristiane that made +Ismay wince. “But I am afraid I must go and look after my bread and +butter. I am one of the working-classes, Miss Le Marchant.” + +“But you don’t work always! If you have a Saturday and Sunday to spare, +will you remember you are wanted here?” + +For the man seemed a link with her dead father that she could not lose. + +Wray glanced at Mrs. Trelane. + +“Cristiane is right, Mr. Wray,” she said. “We shall always be glad to +see you, though, of course, at present we do not see any one but old +friends.” + +“Well, we live and learn,” reflected Ismay. “Fancy mother saying she +will be glad to see that man. She must be in a blue fright.” + +She heard in utter silence an arrangement made which would bring Marcus +Wray from London on the next Saturday fortnight. She had that much time +in which to see Cylmer. + +In the morning sunshine what she had overheard last night in the dusk +seemed monstrous and absurd. Yet there sat the man whose profession +was blackmail, and there sat the woman who feared him, pale, worn, and +harried, in the dainty breakfast-room. + +“There’s plenty of time, that is the only thing,” Ismay thought, as she +saw Cristiane leave the room with Wray and go out by the window onto +the terrace. The morning was almost warm, and they walked up and down +there, like old friends, a hideous sight to the girl who watched them +over her empty teacup. + +“Plenty of time; he is too clever to hurry and make a scandal in the +country.” She wondered morbidly how he would set about his hideous end +when the time was ripe. + +“Nonsense!” she said to herself smartly. “I shall have the upper hand +long before that, though I don’t know how yet.” + +She rose quickly and went out through the open French window. Cristiane +was alone now, and Ismay had no mind for a solitary conversation with +Mr. Wray, who had come into the house by the hall door to get ready for +his train. + +“Mother can talk to him if she chooses, not I!” she thought, with +a shrug of her shoulders. “I am a fool to mix myself up in it, I +believe, and yet I haven’t much choice. Some one must look after this +baby”--with a grudging glance at the girl whose bare head shone ruddy +in the winter sun. + +Cristiane slipped her arm through Ismay’s, a trick the latter hated, +yet she dared not take away her arm. + +“I feel so much better, Ismay,” she said softly, “as if I had been near +father. That friend of your mother’s has been very kind.” + +“Very,” said Ismay dryly. + +“Don’t you like him?” + +“I don’t like him at all. But, of course, he has been very kind to you.” + +“What is the matter with him?” Cristiane was up in arms at once. +“Nobody who wasn’t nice would do all he has done for utter strangers. +You have no real reason for disliking him, have you?” + +“A very small one,” Miss Trelane returned calmly. “I’ll tell it to you +some day--perhaps.” + +“Well, I have a very big reason for liking him, and I think you’re +rather horrid about it,” she replied injuredly. “Don’t you want him to +come back again?” + +“Not particularly,” said the girl, with an inward longing that he might +break his neck on the way to the station. + +Cristiane laughed. + +“How funny you are! You look at the man as if he were a toad, and you +only say ‘not particularly’ when I ask you if you mind his coming here.” + +“Well, then, I am sorry you asked him, if you must know.” + +“I wanted him,” Cristiane rejoined obstinately, “and I should be very +ungrateful if I didn’t.” + +Ismay laughed; it was safer not to go any further, and there would be +no good in driving Cristiane. + +“Gratitude is a vice; you never know where it may lead you,” she +remarked. “He is coming to say good-by to you. I shall go in;” and +she vanished. A thrill of relief went through her when she heard the +crunching of wheels over the gravel as Marcus Wray drove off. When +their last sound had died away, she stepped out on the terrace again +and stood staring, with an incredulous joy that was almost pain. + +Mr. Cylmer was coming up the avenue, a sight to make any woman look +with pleasure at him, in his spotless breeches and boots, and the +scarlet coat that showed to the utmost advantage every line of his +strong, splendid figure. He was walking and leading a very lame horse. + +“Why, here’s Miles!” Cristiane cried wonderingly. “And his horse can +hardly crawl. I wonder what is the matter.” + +She forgot there had been any gap in his coming and going to Marchant’s +Hold; his arriving at this unseemly hour was so like the old days, when +he had always been welcome. + +“What on earth has happened to you?” she called, as he came nearer. + +“Molly strained her shoulder at the bank down by your outfields,” he +returned, stopping in front of them, his handsome head glossy in the +sun as he lifted his hat. “So I came to ask you if I might put her in +your stable instead of taking her all the way home. I don’t know how it +happened; slipped, I fancy; she didn’t fall.” + +“I knew you’d do it some day. You go at your banks too fast.” Cristiane +frowned as she touched the mare’s shoulder with knowledgable fingers. +“Poor Molly! It’s a shame.” + +Mr. Cylmer was annoyed. Few men rode with more judgment than he, and he +knew it. + +“You needn’t think I like it, any more than Molly,” he returned, a +trifle crossly. + +“Come along to the stables,” Cristiane said. “The sooner she is seen to +the better. I’m glad you brought her. Come on, Ismay.” + +She had had time to recollect that Miles, who had forgotten her in his +sorrow, could remember now that she could be useful. She marched on in +front, leading the limping mare. Ismay and Cylmer were left to follow. + +“You’ve cut your hand,” said Ismay, and her voice fell softly on his +ears, that Cristiane’s words had left tingling. “It’s bleeding.” + +“It’s all right,” he replied shamefacedly. “I was stooping to make a +gap in the hedge for Molly, and she trod on it.” + +It was cut and bruised so that it ached abominably. He winced with pain +as he tried to move it. + +Ismay’s handkerchief, white, filmy, fine, and smelling of nothing but +fresh linen, was out in a second. + +“There is no sense in getting yourself all horrid with it,” she said +practically. “Hold out your hand.” + +There was an ugly circular jag across the back of the fingers, where +the horse’s shoe had come. + +“It’s too beastly,” he said. He did not want her to look at the mingled +blood and dirt that covered his hand. + +But she only laughed, a little low laugh, like a woman comforting the +hurt of a child. + +“Hold it out,” she repeated, and through the cool linen he could feel +the touch of her slim, deft fingers, a touch that somehow made him +thrill. + +Cristiane had never even seen his hand! + +She stood by while he and a groom saw to Molly, and then as they turned +away the bandage caught her eye. + +“What a baby you are, Miles!” she laughed. “Fancy binding up your whole +hand for a cut!” + +“It’s smashed flat,” he returned quietly. “And you’re an unsympathetic +little wretch. By the way, didn’t I meet a stranger driving down your +avenue?” + +“He isn’t a stranger,” she retorted. “It was Mr. Wray, a friend +of--father’s.” Her lips quivered suddenly. + +“Wray? I never heard of him”--soberly. + +Cristiane stamped her foot. + +“Well, you hear now!” she cried. “Ismay has been horrid about him, and +now I suppose you’re going to be; but I won’t stay and hear it. She +can tell you why”--with a great sob--“why he came!” and before the +astonished Cylmer could breathe, she had run away like a hare, in a +very tempest of tears. + +“What’s the matter with her? She is not at all like herself!” he +exclaimed. + +“She’s unstrung, poor little soul! And I don’t wonder. He came to tell +her he was with Sir Gaspard when he died.” + +“What!” But after that one quick word he listened in silence, as Ismay +told him all she saw fit to tell. + +“Why did she say you had been horrid about him?” he asked as she +finished. + +“I don’t like him. Mother and I knew him in London. He is so ugly--oh! +so ugly that I shiver when I look at him,” she returned lightly, yet +he saw there was something behind her words. Even in a casual glance +there had been something repulsive to him, too, in the face of the man +who had passed him so quickly; not a nice person to have make love to +you, as he guessed he had done to Miss Trelane. + +“Send for me if he comes again and you want to get rid of him,” he said +as lightly as she. “I’d like to see him, too”--with sudden gravity. “It +was strange, his being with Sir Gaspard at the end!” + +“He is a strange man, here to-day and gone to-morrow.” She spoke +wearily. “But, of course, I really know very little about him. I was +angry because his coming upset Cristiane so.” + +“Poor child.” But the tone in his voice was not that with which he +would have spoken of the girl a fortnight before. “Time and letting +alone are what she wants.” He glanced at the house as they neared it. + +“Do you think I am to be admitted?” he said. “Is your mother----” He +did not finish. + +“My mother can afford to forgive you”--with unconscious bitterness. +“And Cristiane would not like it if you did not come in.” + +“I don’t think it would disturb her,” he replied dryly. But he followed +Ismay into the house. + +They sat by the hall fire, that glowed with a gentle warmth, and talked +softly of nothings; with one consent of anything but the things that +were past. As the girl’s green eyes met his, the spell of her beauty +fell on him, till his love for Cristiane seemed a childish dream. Soft, +white, sinuous, she sat in her great chair, and as she looked at him +Miles Cylmer was powerlessly under her sway. + +“I will come to-morrow to bring back the horse,” he said softly, +forgetting it was not his house. “May I?” + +And his blood was quick in him as she gave a little languid nod, so +sweet and full of sorcery were her marvelous eyes. + +If he had dared he would have told her then and there that she was the +only woman in the world for him. He knew now that pity and affection +and an idle heart had made him fancy he cared for Cristiane. + +“You don’t hear what I’m saying, Mr. Cylmer!” + +Ismay’s little laugh roused him, and the man who had been loved by many +women in his time looked up in boyish confusion. + +“I beg your pardon. What was it?” + +“It was like me, a thing of no importance,” she answered lazily. “But +I wonder where your thoughts are”--and her hand, as if by accident, +covered for one instant her scarlet lips. + +Was she a witch who had read his thoughts? For all he knew, she might +be a very Circe, false as water, and yet he would have sworn that she +was heavenly true. + +“I will tell you where they were some day,” he said, wondering if +all the time she knew. For as she talked and he looked at her the +remembrance of her lips on his in that kiss he had taken on that +morning at his gates had come back to him with shame. + +He had kissed her as if she had been a pretty dairymaid and he a king. + +Now his soul went out in longing to have her for his own, to kiss her +as his queen, his wife. How had he dared to think of her in any other +way? + +Her history, her mother, were as nothing to him in face of her +loveliness that bewitched him. + +When at last his borrowed horse came to the door he rose reluctantly. + +“Till to-morrow. I must bring it back, you know,” he said, and at +something in his eyes she flushed, ever so faintly. + +“Till to-morrow,” she echoed quietly. + +And he never imagined that she watched him out of sight as he rode +away, her heart fairly plunging with rapture. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +THE SPINET. + + +It was tea-time when Cristiane appeared again from her bedroom, where +she had fled in her anger with Cylmer. She came straight to Ismay, +where she sat in the drawing-room with her mother, and kissed her +penitently. + +“I was horrid this morning,” she observed childishly. “But Miles was so +stupid. You forgive me, don’t you?” + +“I haven’t any need”--smiling, for she could have had no greater +service done to her. “But I had to go for a walk by myself this +afternoon, and I got drenched.” + +“The rain came on slowly enough,” Cristiane laughed, listening for a +minute to the driving flood that rustled at the windows. “But you are +such a town person! You might have known it was coming.” + +“I had to go out. I couldn’t sleep last night. It was very funny”--with +sudden animation--“perhaps you know something about it?” + +“What was funny?” Cristiane moved a little as Thomas arrived with the +tea, and began to arrange the table close to the two girls. + +“Why--the music! I don’t suppose you were playing on the piano at two +in the morning, were you? For some one was.” + +She looked at Cristiane with a little, puzzled frown. Then she started. + +Thomas, his face like ashes, had dropped the cream-jug; as he stood +staring at the ruin she caught his eyes on her in beseeching warning. + +“I was asleep,” said Cristiane. “Oh, Thomas, never mind! There is +plenty of cream, you needn’t look like that.” + +“Yes, miss! No, miss! I’m very sorry,” the old man said confusedly. “I +will fetch some more.” + +“What did you say about a piano? You must have been dreaming.” + +“I suppose I was”--slowly. “But I thought I woke up and heard some one +playing a queer tune on a piano. But, of course, it was a dream!” She +finished quietly, for there was something in the old servant’s face to +make her hold her tongue. + +“It is rather odd,” Cristiane said, as she carried Mrs. Trelane’s cup +to her, “for Jessie had the same dream once, and Thomas nearly ate her +for telling it. She is his daughter, you know.” + +Ismay drank her tea as lazily as usual, and watched her chance to slip +away after a while. + +Last night’s music had been no dream, and Thomas’ face had mystified +her. As soon as Cristiane and her mother was settled at a game of Halma +for chocolates, she departed unnoticed, and sought Thomas, who was in +his pantry. + +Miss Trelane walked in and closed the door behind her. + +“Why did you look at me like that in the drawing-room, Thomas?” she +asked, with a bluntness very foreign to her. “Why did not you want me +to speak of last night?” + +The old man turned from the decanters he was filling. + +“Because I won’t have Miss Cristiane made nervous,” he said doggedly. +“That’s why, Miss Trelane.” + +“How could it make her nervous to know I heard a piano in the night? +Robbers don’t play on pianos, Thomas.” + +“It’s not robbers I’m thinking of, and if you’re wise you’ll not +mention it again, miss,” he spoke imploringly. + +“I’ll speak of it now, once for all, then,” she said. “For I know it +wasn’t a dream, and you can’t scold me like you did Jessie”--with her +lovely smile. + +“Jessie’s a fool, for all her forty years,” he grumbled, “if she told +you that.” + +“She didn’t, it was Miss Cristiane. Listen, Thomas! Last night I woke +up, broad awake, as I never do, and I heard quite plainly some one +playing a queer tinkling tune on a piano, somewhere up-stairs. It +sounded so uncanny that I sat up to listen, and then I got out of bed +and found my door was open into the hall; out there I heard the music +plainer still, and it made me feel cold. But I thought I’d go and see +who it was.” + +The old man stood staring at her, his face twitching. + +“Well, I went up-stairs, in the dark, till I got to a hall I didn’t +know, and from a room that opened off it I heard that music as plainly +as you hear me now! But the door was shut.” + +“You didn’t go in? For God’s sake, Miss Trelane, never go in!” His +voice, full of horror, startled her. + +“Why? Who’s there? Who was playing that piano?” + +“No one”--heavily. “And it’s no piano, but a spinet that belonged to +Sir Gaspard’s grandmother. It’s haunted, that’s what it is, and to hear +it means trouble to this house. Jessie heard it before the master was +killed. But Miss Cristiane knows naught of it, and don’t you tell her.” + +“It’s mice in the strings,” she said. “Anything else is nonsense.” Yet +with a shudder she remembered the thing had played a tune. “If you +think it’s haunted, why don’t you break it up?” + +“Because we can’t. It isn’t healthy in that room,” he stammered. +“Before Lady Le Marchant died I was in there with one of the footmen, +and we opened the thing and looked all through it. There wasn’t a sign +of mice. And when we turned from it, it began to play, first a scale, +and then a tune that queer that we couldn’t move. And there in broad +daylight a wind went by us that was cold like snow. I’ve never been in +there since.” + +He wiped his forehead that was wet. + +“There must be something inside that’s like a musical-box,” she said, +more to herself than to him. But he shook his head. + +“There’s naught. I’ve seen it and I know. ’Tis the fingers of her that +plays it--and God knows that’s enough! Pray to Him that you never see +her, Miss Trelane”--reverentially. + +“Did any one ever?” she breathed sharply. + +“Yes! She walks--all over the house--of nights like this,” he admitted +unwillingly. “But I have the servants all sleep in the new wing, else +we’d have ne’er a one. But you stay in your bed, miss, and you’ll never +see her. And don’t tell Miss Cristiane; her father never let her hear +of any such tales.” + +“I won’t tell her; for one thing, I don’t believe in it,” Ismay said +sharply. But she showed no sign of leaving the pantry. + +“Who was the ghost, Thomas, and what did she do, that she +walks?”--seating herself on one end of his table. + +“She was a Lady Le Marchant,” he began sullenly, but at her interested +face he warmed suddenly to his tale. “You’ll give your word you’ll not +tell Miss Cristiane?” he promised. + +“Not I,” she answered, her elbows on her knees, her chin in the palm of +her hand, in a curious crouching attitude that brought her eyes full on +his as he faced her. + +“Go on, Thomas.” + +“Well, then, she was a Lady Le Marchant. And her husband, Sir Guy, +fairly doted on her; but she was a childless woman, and given up to +pleasure and dancing, and the like. She had lovers by the score, but +she never cared for one of them beyond the first day or so. Fair she +was, they say; as fair as you, Miss Trelane”--glancing at her flaxen +hair--“and ’tis her picture hangs in the room with the spinet. ’Twas +done by a foreign artist Sir Guy had over from Italy, and that man the +lady loved. + +“While the picture was being painted Sir Guy noticed nothing, but when +’twas done, and the man still stayed on, he wondered. And one day he +saw them kissing. She was playing the tune she loved best of all on +that spinet, and the foreign artist was behind her. And, not seeing her +husband, she throws back her head, and the man kisses her lips. + +“They say Sir Guy was a proud man. Anyhow, he turned and went away as +if he’d seen nothing. + +“But that night he told her, as she was singing herself that ungodly +tune she was forever playing on the spinet. + +“Whatever he said no one knows. But it must have maddened her, for she +whipped up a knife that was on a table and stabbed him to the heart. + +“He put out his hands to her, and one of them marked the dress she had +on with a stain of blood on the breast. But he lay dead in his chair, +and she with his blood wet on her gown went down-stairs to the artist, +and told him plump and plain what she’d done for his sake. And he would +have none of her.” + +“He was a fool; she must have been good stuff,” observed his listener +musingly. “But I don’t know. She should have known him better first.” + +“She was good stuff, Miss Trelane,” the old man went on quietly. “For +when he laid her crime before her, and told her he loved her no more, +she never even answered him. Just turned away silent, and up-stairs to +the room where Sir Guy lay dead. + +“They say she played that tune then, in that room with a murdered man +to listen; played it for the last time. For one of the servants heard +it as he passed. And she heard him, too, for she opened the door and +called him. + +“‘James,’ she says, ‘come here. Did you hear me playing just now?’ + +“‘Madam, yes,’ he answers. ‘’Tis all writ out in a book in the library. +You can see it if you like, miss.’ + +“‘And did you know the tune?’ + +“’Twas the one you’re so fond of, my lady.’ And he wondered at her for +asking, and for sitting without a light, for the room was dark and he +could not see into it. + +“‘You’ll have no chance to forget it, you and those that come after +you,’ she says very slow. ‘When I’m gone you’ll hear it, and always +for evil. When you hear it’--and she laughed till he thought she was +crazy--‘you’ll remember I told you that in my dying hour.’ + +“Then she draws herself up and speaks out loud and grand till they +heard her through the house. + +“‘Come in, man, and look at your master! He lies dead, and I killed +him; for I was weary of his face;’ and before he could know what she +meant, she had struck that bloody knife into her own breast, for she +was a strong woman, and she knew where to find her heart.” + +“Is that all?” Ismay spoke with a curious effort, like one in a dream. + +“All. Except that ’twas a stormy night like this will be, and ’tis +those times that she walks. And her spinet plays yet, and no one ever +heard it for good, or went into that room for luck.” + +“I’d like to, Thomas,” she said quietly. + +“Don’t you go,” he warned her. “For you might be frightened and run, +and them stairs outside and the rails of them are fairly crumbling +with dry-rot. If you tripped and fell against them, as like as not the +banisters would give way with you, and you’d fall to your death into +the great hall below. Mind now, Miss Trelane, for that’s the truth.” + +“What would you do if you saw her, Thomas?” she queried idly. + +“Me--miss?” he said shamefully. “Well! I’d run and get out of her way, +behind a locked door, and so would Jessie. As for the maids, they don’t +know, and if they did, they’d be gone without waiting to see her.” + +Ismay slipped off the table. + +“Thank you, Thomas,” she said. “I won’t tell Miss Cristiane, or any one +else. But it’s a queer story.” + +“Too queer when you know it’s true,” he muttered. “Excuse me, miss, but +the dressing-bell has rung.” + +“All right. I’m going.” + +But as she went slowly up the stairs she laughed to herself, and the +laugh was short and ugly. + +Surely she had found a weapon at last to do her good service against +Marcus Wray. + +“To hear is to know,” she thought; “but I hope it may be a long time +before I hear his voice in this house. But at least I will be prepared.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +“AT MIDNIGHT.” + + +The household retired to rest early, at Marchant’s Hold, and Ismay was +in her bed and asleep by ten o’clock, but with a purpose in her mind +that made her wake to the minute as the clock rang two. + +She had left her blinds up, and as she sat up in her bed she saw the +moonlight lying on the carpet. The rain was over. + +“That is lucky, I sha’n’t need much light,” she thought composedly, as +she got up and put on a warm, dark dressing-gown, and woolen slippers +that would make no sound. + +She must investigate that room up-stairs, and her only chance was at +night, when her mother and Cristiane were safe. + +“Besides,” she reminded herself quite gaily, “I shall have to use it +at night, when I need it; and I may as well get used to it. It is at +night that mother and Marcus Wray will make their plans, at night that +they will carry them out. And at night I always lock my door! I’m very +nervous--in the dark!” she laughed noiselessly. “I must impress that +on my parent.” But it was without a tremor that she slipped out into +the silent house and up the stairs, where there were no windows and the +darkness was inky. + +There was no sound of music to-night to guide her as she stood at +last in the black hall, where a dozen shut doors kept the darkness +inviolate. She felt in her pocket for her end of candle and matches. +They were there, but she dared not strike a light here in the corridor. +One hand held at arm’s length before her, she moved on cautiously, till +she felt a door. The handle turned under her fingers, and she went in +without a sound; without a sound the door closed behind her, though for +all she knew she stood alone at night, in the room where Thomas had +been terror-stricken in daylight. + +With steady fingers she lit the candle, and stared round her as it +burned dimly. The room was chilly and close, but it was not the room +she wanted, only an unused bedroom, a little dusty. She pinched out her +candle and went into the hall again. + +“What a fool I am not to remember!” she thought angrily; “it’s cold up +here, and no fun.” + +She tried three more rooms in succession; all had no sign in them of +any musical instrument, nor ghostly habitation. Could she be in the +wrong hall? + +She opened the next door in doubtful irritation, but her hand stopped +with a jerk as she lifted it to strike a match. + +Opposite her the moonlight poured through a wide, low window, till the +room seemed light as day after the dark hall, and in the very full +flood of the moonlight stood the little spinet on its high, thin legs, +its narrow ivory keyboard shining dustily in the moon-rays. + +An inexplicable terror that she was not alone clutched at the girl’s +bold heart. Thomas was right, there was something queer about this +room! Without turning, Ismay stretched out her arm backward, to shut +the door. But it was fast already; noiselessly it had swung back on its +hinges, without even a click of the latch. + +In the cold, musty air the girl felt choked. With quick, steady fingers +she lit her candle; to stay in this room with no light but the moon’s +was beyond her. As the lighted wick burned from blue into yellow, she +sighed with relief. + +“I--to be frightened by Thomas’ silly stories!” she thought +contemptuously. “If I had heard nothing about the room I should never +have thought of having cold chills down my back.” + +With the thought she had set the candle on the side of the old spinet +that was supposed to sound from the touch of fingers that had long been +mold. It was silent enough now. Not a sound came from it as she opened +the back and peered into the depths of the case where the strings were +stretched like a piano’s. She put her slim, long arm down inside it, +and felt the instrument all over. It was a plain, old-fashioned thing +enough, strong and good still. But it apparently held no trace of any +mechanism that would make it play alone at night. + +Ismay drew back and stared at it. In the fantastic mingling of +moonlight and candle-light her uncanny beauty was more witchlike than +ever, with the flaxen hair falling to her knees over the dark wrapper. + +“I should say Thomas was crazy if I had not heard the thing myself!” +she said aloud, and there was nothing but puzzled curiosity in her +voice. + +“But it’s got to be made to play again, and I don’t know the national +air of the mice.” + +She put a stool carefully in front of the spinet, and sat down, +fumbling at the keys. Clear, thin, and sweet, the notes tinkled softly +under her fingers. + +“The tune--how did it go?” she tried for it softly. It had been a +strange tune, with queer intervals; an air that was very old and +wailing. + +She played a few bars, stumblingly. + +How cold, how very cold the room was, and what was the matter with +the candle? Without a flicker the yellow flame had turned blue as she +stared at it, it went out; she could see the wick smoking in the +moonlight. + +“Truly,” said Ismay, to herself, “I must have iron nerves! I’m not +frightened. Yet I don’t think that was a draft.” + +Without moving, she tried the strange tune again, and this time the +very terror of death fell on her. Without turning her head, she knew +there was something behind her; something very cold and threatening; +something that in a minute would be at her throat, choking her till her +hand fell from the keyboard. She swung sharply round. There was nothing +there. + +“Thomas’ nonsense again, and my fancy,” she said deliberately, for the +room was certainly empty. “My nerves are playing me tricks, after all.” + +As she started, in the darkness beyond the patch of moonlight she saw +something, the picture of a woman hanging on the wall. + +“The late owner of the spinet!” + +She got up, and lit her candle. Light in hand, she went close to the +picture, till the painted eyes were plain. Dark eyes they were, in a +pale, cruel face, with red lips, like Ismay’s own. The fair hair was +piled high on the head; the dress was of the latter part of the last +century. + +“So you are the lady that walks! And you are a little like me, which is +all the better,” she murmured. “And if you are a wise ghost, you will +help me, and not hinder me, for you and I are all the defense Cristiane +le Marchant has.” + +Her eyes, that were full of a strange compelling, were fastened on the +picture. Childish and far-fetched as it was, it seemed to the girl that +she was bending something to her own ends, something both wickeder and +weaker than she. A strange delight thrilled her. + +“I am not afraid any more!” she cried out, with soft rapture, “and I +remember the tune now.” + +With a noiseless movement, she was at the spinet, under her fingers the +whole tune tinkled out, and this time there was no dread in her of a +lurking terror behind. Ghost, imagination, mice--whatever it was--she, +Ismay Trelane, was its mistress, by the very courage of her heart. + +There was nothing there, nothing! Yet there should be a terror there +that would walk in darkness, and hear, and know, and see, till Marcus +Wray was thwarted in this house, at least. + +The cold air of the room had struck to her bones, and she drew her warm +gown about her as she turned to go. She had learned enough to go on. +From now, not a word spoken at midnight, or a trap laid, would escape +Ismay Trelane. She was laughing to herself as she walked to the door. +But as she turned the handle, she stopped. + +The spinet was playing. Clear, unearthly, that strange tune tinkled +out, under her very eyes. + +Whatever it was, it was very queer. She stared incredulously, as Thomas +had done, but, unlike Thomas, she was not frightened. + +“Thank you!” she said gravely, and without bravado. “If you are a +musical box, or whatever you are, you are going to be my friend.” And +without a tremor she turned to the uncanny thing when its tune was +done, and peered once more into its depths. + +Had she been blind before? For now she saw plainly enough a small brass +bracket, black with age, almost invisible in dust. It was a plain +oblong slip, about the size of a railway-ticket, and it stuck out from +the inside of the case. + +Leaning down, Ismay pressed it, ever so lightly. + +Almost immediately the weird music poured into the room. + +The girl saw the whole thing now. The woman to whom it belonged had had +it made, so that she might hear the tune she loved without playing it. +Her threat to her servant had been a grim and mocking jest. + +Very quietly, she put out her light and went out into the dark hall and +down-stairs, and yet she was trembling. If it were all a trick, why had +her candle gone out? + +“If I had once been frightened I should have died of it, up there in +the moonlight!” she said to herself, with conviction. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN. + + +Time hung heavily on Mrs. Trelane’s hands for all the comfort and +luxury of the house. + +She missed the freedom, missed the theaters, the little suppers at +restaurants, missed more than either the companionship of the men who +were wont to gather round her in London--gentlemen with reputations out +at elbows, but clever, amusing, the very salt of life to Helen Trelane. + +Therefore, she said at breakfast, with a little distasteful sigh, that +she must go to London, to see the dressmaker. + +Ismay lifted her brows. + +“I wouldn’t, if I were you. You can bully people better in writing.” +Her tone was very significant. + +She supposed the “dressmaker” meant an appeal to the mercy of a man who +had none, and then a mad whirl of amusement, her mourning thrown to the +winds. + +But she was wrong. Mrs. Trelane had no thought of Wray. + +“I really must go,” she said, “annoying as it is. Should you mind, +Cristiane?” + +“Not a bit. You won’t stay long, will you? I shall teach Ismay to ride +while you are gone,” with a little, affectionate glance. “We shall be +quite happy.” + +“Oh, no! Not long, of course.” + +In spite of herself, her tone was joyous as a child’s. To be in London, +with money, to drink deep of life again. No wonder her voice betrayed +her. + +Ismay followed her to her room, where she stood, in her smart mourning. + +“The Gaiety, the Café Royal, and cards afterward till daylight may be +amusing,” she observed cuttingly, “but they are not worth your neck.” + +“What do you mean?” In her annoyance, Mrs. Trelane almost dropped the +bottle of peach-blossom scent in her hand. + +“I mean you’ll go to London, and wear a white gown in the evenings, +with a string of mock pearls round your neck. Because the gossip +about Lord Abbotsford has died away you are quite comfortable,” Ismay +retorted; “and about now the police will be waking up to their work. +London will not be a good retreat for the person who killed him!” + +“Ismay!” The scent-bottle crashed on the floor now from the loosened +fingers; strong and sickly, its contents flooded the room. “Ismay, are +you mad? What has come over you? You know that”--her voice fell to a +frightened whisper--“that he was dead when I went there.” She looked +old and wretched as she stood, ready dressed to start. + +“I know what you choose to tell me. Oh! mother,” passionately, “let us +both go away from here, go somewhere that is safe, and live quietly, +you and I. I’ll work for you----” + +A laugh cut her short. Yet Mrs. Trelane stood, wringing her hands. + +“You know we can’t get away,” she cried, “and why should we? I never +killed Abbotsford!” + +“Then why are you so frightened of Marcus Wray?” deliberately. + +“You little fool. I took the diamonds!” She stooped and picked up +the fragments of her cut-glass bottle. “You know all I did,” she +cried, straightening herself to face her daughter, her clean-cut +face very pale. “What on earth has changed you, till you talk like a +Sunday-school book? What has become of your fine plan for securing Mr. +Cylmer, that you try to frighten me into leaving here with your silly, +lying accusation? You work for me?” she laughed miserably. “Would you +take in washing?” + +Ismay’s passion of earnestness left her with her old manners, her old +catlike grace. She flung herself into a chair. + +“Never mind what I’d do. I meant it,” she retorted. “As for Mr. Cylmer, +you can let him alone. I would have let him go--for you--five minutes +ago. But I don’t think I would--now! Go to London,” politely, “but +don’t forget my advice. You ought to know by this time it’s more lucky +to take it.” + +“I know you are an ungrateful little idiot,” said Mrs. Trelane angrily. +And with that for her only farewell, she swept down-stairs to get into +her carriage. Ismay turning pious was a good joke. As for Cylmer, it +was simply girlish boasting. Mrs. Trelane felt quite safe on that score +as she drove away. It was not in the least likely that he would come to +Marchant’s Hold, or that Ismay would get hold of him, and bring down +the wrath of Marcus Wray. All girls had a hero, usually out of reach. +Why should Ismay be superior to the rest? And as for Wray and his awful +schemes, with his absence their very memory had vanished from the +light mind of the woman who lived to please herself. It was all absurd +nonsense, he would not dare to go any farther with it. + +All her fears soothed to rest, she proceeded to spend a cheerful +afternoon on reaching London, little knowing how she had rocked her +troubles to sleep with lying hopes. + +In his chambers, Marcus Wray sat reading a short newspaper paragraph +over and over, his fingers tapping at his knee, his lips hard set. + +Only a short paragraph, but it meant danger, and he frowned as he read. +Helen Trelane up in London, dressed in her best, was like a child +playing with a smoking bomb; if Mr. Wray had known of it he would have +packed her straight off to the country, and gone with her himself, +which it was well for Ismay that he did not do. + +She was very nervous about the sudden freak her mother had taken; +in some way or other it was sure to mean more trouble. And she was +disappointed about her afternoon. + +At lunch Cristiane had mentioned carelessly that Cylmer had sent a +groom over with the horse borrowed the day before; that was all, but +Ismay knew he had meant to come himself, and had thought better of it. + +She would not listen when Cristiane proposed lending her a habit and +taking her out riding. + +“I think I’ve got a headache,” she said wearily. “You go for a ride, +and I’ll walk a little by myself. I’ll be all right at tea-time.” + +She strolled out through the quiet winter lanes when Cristiane was +gone. She was very pale to-day, very languid, a presentiment of evil +was heavy at her heart. Her mother had been mad to go to London; she +herself was more idiotic, still, to think that Miles Cylmer would ever +care for her. + +Tired at last, she sat down on a stile between two fields, and leaned +back, staring in front of her. Somehow, her heart was faint within her +to-day, but why any more than yesterday? + +“Because I sha’n’t see him, and I want him,” she thought dreamily. “I +want something that will strengthen me, something that I can look back +to, and think that nothing matters since I was happy once. And I will +be happy. I will!” + +Her scarlet mouth was so determined that a man who had come up +unnoticed smiled as he saw it. Yet briefly, for her face was +pathetically weary, more than ever it bore that prophecy of tragedy +that seemed so out of place for Ismay Trelane. + +“Where are your thoughts?” Cylmer said lightly. “Oh, did I startle you?” + +For Ismay, who never blushed, had turned first a faint rose, then a +fiery scarlet, that burned on her smooth cheeks. + +“My thoughts?” Confused, she put her hands to her face. “Oh, anywhere. +Yes, of course, you startled me.” But she was mistress of herself again +now, and she smiled into his eyes as he stood before her, cap in hand. + +“I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” Why did the girl’s glance go to his +head like wine? Why did he think of nothing, want nothing, but to sit +and talk with the daughter of an adventuress whom he scarcely knew? + +He sat down beside her on the stile. + +“I was going to see you,” he said, “though, I must say, I was shy about +it. Your mother, with excellent reason, hates me.” + +“My mother has gone to London,” simply. + +“And I don’t think Cristiane is overfond of my society.” + +“Why not?” she asked languidly. + +“Good taste, I suppose,” was the answer, and both laughed. + +“I was taking you something. Will you have it?” he asked, and she saw +that he carried something. Before she could answer he had laid in her +lap a great bunch of roses, crimson, sweet smelling. + +The girl stared at them as they lay in her lap. In all her life no one +had ever given her a flower. She put the roses to her face with a quick +tenderness no one had ever seen in her. + +As she looked up at him, her eyes were very deep and soft. She held the +roses tightly in both hands. + +“Why are you giving them to me?” she said wonderingly. + +“Because you’ve had so little. Because I thought you might like them.” + +“I do.” Her voice was very low. “But how do you know I’ve had--so +little?” + +“Lord De Fort told me,” was on his tongue, but it stuck there. + +“Do you remember that night at the Palace?” he asked, instead. “Shall I +tell you what I saw there? A girl in a threadbare black gown, worn at +the elbows, and too thin for the weather; a girl who was pale and very +tired, but more beautiful than any woman I had ever seen. Do you know +that, Ismay?” + +“No,” she whispered. + +“Then you know now,” he retorted, his face very pale, his eyes, that +were so sweet, close to hers. “I thought I cared for some one else, +then--now I know that I would let everything in this world go to be +with you--even honor!” + +Why did the two last words almost stop her heart, that was beating so +quick? Why should Ismay Trelane, to whom honor was but a foolish thing, +a mere word, turn cold, to think he would let it go--for her. She flung +out her hands with a little cry. + +“Why should you let it go--for me?” She was panting for breath. “Do you +mean that I, who am nobody, and have come here from the gutters, am a +thing you could not touch and keep your honor?” + +“No, no! Not that. Don’t think I dared mean that. It was only a way of +saying”--he took one little bare hand, and held it in strong fingers +that were very careful--“how much I love you.” + +“You love me?” For once she was not thinking or acting a part; not +thinking of all Cylmer could give her; not thinking of anything but +that he was beside her, his voice low in her ears, his hand in hers. + +“It can’t be true,” she said desperately. “When I came here you loved +Cristiane; I saw it in her face when she came in that first day.” + +For a minute he was staggered. + +“I thought I did.” And at the truth in his voice Ismay’s heart jumped. +“I know now I never did, for I love you. When I kissed you that day I +knew that your lips on mine had made me yours to take or leave. Which +will you do, Ismay?” + +“Yet a little time after you said things to my mother that----” She +stopped, and did not look at him. + +“I did not know she was your mother.” + +“It did not matter. They were true. They are just as true now. Can you +love me, knowing them?” + +For the first time she spoke with a purpose. There must be no slip +between the cup and the lip for want of a little plain speaking. + +“Can I love you? Can I help breathing?” almost angrily. “I tell you I +am yours to take or leave. Which is it, Ismay?” + +She turned her face to him deliberately; as she lifted her chin, he saw +the long, lovely line of it, that slipped into her throat; saw the +milky whiteness of her oval cheek, that just missed being hollow; saw +her eyes, dark and green, full of his own image; saw her lips--the man +was dizzy as she spoke. + +“Take me,” she whispered. “Love me, kill me, it is all one to me, +for I--love you!” And in her face there was all that miracle of pure +passion that had never shone on Cristiane’s, whom he had thought he +loved. + +With something very near to reverence, Miles Cylmer kissed her. As he +let her go, he was shaking. + +Hand in hand, like two children, they sat, as the winter sun set in a +pale glory behind the leafless trees. + +Ismay looked at him, soft malice in her eyes. + +“By the way, why are you here on a hunting-day?” she inquired demurely. + +“I’ve a sore bridle-hand,” he said calmly. + +She caught the quick look he flashed on her, that was both sweet and +mischievous. + +“What a story, Mr. Cylmer!” childishly. + +“Mr. who?” + +“Mr. Cylmer. It’s your name, isn’t it?” + +“Not to you.” He turned her face to him with a masterful hand. “Are you +going to call me that when you come to live over there?” he whispered, +and laughed with pleasure as the blood leaped to her face. + +“Live over there?” she stammered, looking to where, on the far-off +hill, the roof of Cylmer’s Ferry caught the last sunbeams. + +“I don’t see where else you’re going to live when you marry me.” + +“Marry you!” Every trace of color left her cheek. “I--can’t marry you.” + +“What! Why not?” His careless, teasing voice turned her cold. “Tell me, +why not, my witch?” + +Tell him! She turned with sudden passion, and clung to him, hiding her +face in his rough tweed coat. + +What had she done through this mad love that possessed her? What was +she to do? + +The first word of her marriage with another man would make a very devil +in Marcus Wray. She would look well being married to Cylmer, while her +mother was being tried for her life for the murder of Lord Abbotsford, +for that was what her stolen love would bring to her. + +“My love, my only love!” She crushed the words back against his +shoulder, thankful to hide her face, and yet agonized, for how long +would its shelter be hers if he knew? + +“Ismay, what’s the matter?” Cylmer was suddenly frightened at the wild +cling of her hand in his. “Why can’t you marry me? I thought you were +playing--do you mean you are in earnest?” + +In earnest, with the toils all around her; with murder past, and murder +to come! She set her teeth hard before she answered. + +“Mother would never hear of it,” she faltered lamely. + +“Why not?” He made her look at him. + +“She hates you.” + +“But if you loved me?” wonderingly. + +“It wouldn’t matter! And, besides----” + +“Besides what?” He was very grave, his lips hard under his tawny +mustache. + +“She wants me to marry some one else. If she thought you loved me, she +would do it all the more.” + +“She couldn’t,” very quietly. “Do you think I am a boy, to be bullied?” + +Ismay drew away from him. She could not think with her face against his +warm shoulder, and think she must. + +“Listen,” she said slowly. “I know my mother better than you. Let me +get her round by degrees before we tell her anything; let nobody know +just yet that you care.” + +“Who is the other man?” shortly. “Do you mean you are engaged to him?” + +Ismay turned, and looked at him. + +“I mean I hate him”--her voice low, with unutterable loathing--“as I +shall hate you, whom I love, if you dare to think that of me.” + +The truth and passion in her voice made him wince with shame. + +“Ismay!” he cried. “Oh, love, forgive me!” + +“I’d forgive you if you killed me,” recklessly. + +“But you must listen to me, and never tell you love me till I say it is +time.” + +“Through life and death and past the grave.” + +“Anything, if you love me, and only me.” + +They stood close now, his arms fast round her; through the silk of his +mustache she felt his lips on hers, and knew that, come what might, for +one long instant she had stood at the gate of heaven. + +“My sweet, how can I leave you?” he said, letting her go a little that +he might feast his eyes on her face, that was transfigured. + +“Leave me? Why should you leave me?” + +“Kiss me again, and I’ll tell you.” + +But she could not; a curious premonition had suddenly brought her back +to the old Ismay Trelane, who must watch, and think, and scheme. + +“Tell me, now,” she said, and at the weariness in her voice he drew +her to him, penitently. + +“Was I too rough with you, sweet? I’m so sorry. But I really have to go +away; that was why I came over to-day. I must go to London to-morrow.” + +“Away from me?” but she could not smile. + +“Does town count before me?” + +“Nothing does. But after you comes a duty to the dead.” + +“To the dead?” She stared at him. “Do you mean Sir Gaspard?” + +“No; but it’s a ghastly thing to talk of to-day.” + +“Tell me; you’re frightening me; I--I hate death.” + +“Don’t be frightened, sweet; it is nothing to do with you, not much +with me. But do you remember how they found Lord Abbotsford dead this +autumn? Or did you ever hear of it?” + +“I--I heard.” Her eyes, black, dilated, with terror, stared, unseeing, +at his unconscious face. + +“Well, I’ve had a detective working at it ever since--and--this is the +first secret I’ve ever told you, sweet, and it is a secret--he wants +to see me at once. He thinks he has got a clue to the murderer. Why, +Ismay! Darling! Why did I speak of such a horror to you?” with dismay. + +For she had slipped like water through his arms, a lifeless heap on the +cold ground. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE EDGE OF DOOM. + + +A cold black void; a struggle that was agony to get out of it; a +falling through deep waters that were loud in her ears, then blackness +once more, deep and awful. Slowly, slowly, it faded, and with a +sickness like death at her heart Ismay was conscious again. Where was +she? What was this? + +She lifted her head from the wintry earth, and let it fall again. + +“Lie still; don’t move.” Cylmer was kneeling beside her, inwardly +cursing himself for a fool, when he knew her horror of death. + +“Ismay, darling, forgive me, and forget it. I might have known it was +enough to sicken any woman.” + +“Death--murder--you!” she cried incoherently. “Ever since I came here +death has been round me, I”--her voice was shrill, hysterical--“I smell +death in Marchant’s Hold, and I meet it.” Her eyes closed again. + +“No, no! Don’t talk like that, my sweet,” gathering her close with +protecting arms. “I was a brute to tell you such things. You were tired +out, unstrung already. I was too rough and careless with you, my heart.” + +But she shrank away. + +“You--to bring any one to their death; to find clues that would hang +them!” + +“It is not I, it is justice. Oh! don’t draw away from me.” + +“Justice on the poor, the tempted!” A sudden sense of the danger that +her words held checked her. “Oh, why did you tell me? Why should I +know you are helping to hunt any poor wretch down?” + +“Oh, the tender woman’s soul that cannot bear anything to be hurt!” he +thought swiftly, loving her all the more for her weakness. + +“Would you let things go, and have the innocent suffer for the guilty?” +he said gravely. “I think not, dear.” + +The innocent! Was there any one in the world innocent? She had no +reason to love her mother, yet now, in her peril, she was ready to +fight, tooth and nail, for her, even when her enemy was Miles Cylmer, +whose kiss had opened heaven. + +All that he was doing she must know, and make of no avail, and at the +task before her the girl’s brave spirit quailed. Somehow she must save +her mother, and keep him! Her brain reeled as she thought that some +one, no matter how innocent, must have that crime brought home to them +to save the mother who was guilty. + +Ismay summoned all her strength, and sat up, very white. + +“Did you know I was such a baby?” she whispered. “I hate hearing of +horrors, and it startled me to know you had anything to do with things +like that. But you’re quite right. I won’t be so silly any more. Only +I--I was ready to cry in any case. I loved you, and you kissed me, +and----” + +“And then I had not any more sense than to blurt out things you should +never hear of,” he finished for her, kissing her again, very softly. +“I’m going to take you home now, and we’ll never speak of Abbotsford +again.” + +“You can as much as you like, now,” and if her lips were wan he did not +notice. “I know whatever you do will be for the right,” speaking the +truth, but not adding, “no matter the cost to me and mine.” + +“My little sweetheart,” he said, fastening the fur collar of her +coat, that he had unfastened to give her room to breathe when she lay +unconscious. “I wish I could carry you home. You aren’t fit to walk.” + +“I am fit to go anywhere with you,” she smiled, with all the strange +sorcery that was hers, a smile that covered deadly terror. “Bring my +roses. They are the first thing you ever gave me,” pointing to the +great bunch of blood-red flowers lying on the ground in the early +twilight. + +“They are not half so sweet and fine as you,” Cylmer said, as he saw +her put them to her face. “Do you know how beautiful you are? I wish +you would marry me to-morrow, so that you could put away all that +black, and let me see you in a white gown.” + +With a little shiver, she drew closer to him, where she walked within +his arm in the sheltering dusk. + +“Tell me about Lord Abbotsford,” she said, as his arm tightened round +her, for she must know; she dared not let him go back to talk of that +love that might turn so bitter in the end. + +“And make you faint again? Not I!” + +“I won’t. It wasn’t that.” He could not know the sweet shyness of her +voice was put there to cover the first lie she had ever told him. “I +was--tired.” + +And in the languor of happiness that was in his own blood, he believed +her. + +“But you hate those things!” + +“Not if you say they are right.” + +“They are, I suppose,” he answered slowly. “A man’s blood cries from +the ground for justice, and I was his only friend. But I don’t think I +ought to talk about it--to you.” + +“If I am going to be your wife, will you always hide unpleasant things +from me?” softly. “I don’t think I should like that.” + +“I’m never going to hide anything from you,” he cried, with love in his +voice. “But there isn’t much to tell.” + +She listened with a heart like ice as he told her all that she knew so +well--the missing photograph, the money, the diamonds--she had to hold +herself hard not to forestall him as he talked. Would he never come to +something new? But when he came to it she was thankful for the darkness +that hid her face. + +“The diamonds vanished utterly,” he was saying; “but the other day, one +of them, a very curious stone, with a pink tinge in it, turned up in +Amsterdam. The tracing of it will be long, but certain in the end; it +will ruin the man or woman who took it.” + +“Or woman!” The interruption was nearly a cry. “What woman would do +such things?” + +“It looked as if a woman had taken away the photograph.” He drew her +closer. “Look out, the path is slippery!” + +“Very slippery,” said Ismay Trelane, keeping down the dry sob in her +throat. Slippery, and on the very edge of doom, this path that she must +walk to the end. + +“You see, there must have been a woman in it somewhere, for Abbotsford +was going to be married, and he was leaving all the people he had been +friendly with, and arranging all his affairs.” + +“Say it plainly,” said the old Ismay Trelane, who had been brought up +to uncanny knowledge. + +“I can’t say it--to you,” Cylmer returned, with shame. + +“Go on, then, I know what you mean. Let us say the photograph was the +woman’s he was leaving for his wife.” + +“Then, don’t you see, it must have either been she or some man for her +who came back and took it.” + +“I think it must have been a man!” Her voice through her white lips +sounded almost indifferent. “A woman would not dare.” + +“Whichever it was, they were mad to take the diamonds. I don’t know,” +he continued, “that it’s going to make much difference. The diamonds +may be traced, of course, but they are not the clue I spoke about. +Kivers tells me there was something found in the room when they were +getting things ready for the new Lord Abbotsford’s family. It will +probably show clearly enough whether the murderer was a man or not.” + +“Something found! What, I wonder?” like lightning she was going over +that day. Her mother had not dropped or lost anything; she could not +have, or she would have missed it, and said so, Ismay thought, in new +terror. “Why must it belong to the man who killed him? What was found, +I mean? Fifty people may have been in and out of that room since he +died.” + +“No one has; it was locked and sealed after the inquest by my--the +detective,” quickly correcting himself. “It was only opened two days +ago by him, when he made a last search, before giving up hope, and +before the new family came to him. And in the last search he found +something.” + +“What?” Her impatience made her eyes burn in the dusk. + +“That’s what I’m going up to see. ‘A trinket, or a part of one,’ he +said.” + +“A trinket!” involuntarily the words escaped her, with an anxiety that +was pain. Yet she was sure that her mother had not lost anything that +awful day, unless--she had not known she did! + +“It may be something I have seen before,” said Cylmer coolly, and once +more that hand of ice was on her heart. “So I shall go up to-morrow.” + +“To-morrow!” What should she do all the long day when he was gone. When +each minute might be bringing detection nearer? “You won’t stay long?” +she added imploringly. “You’ll come back?” + +“As soon as I possibly can; the next day at farthest. Shall you miss +me?” + +“Miss you!” She gathered all her strength and laughed lightly, without +a trace of care. “I have not had you long enough to miss you.” + +They were close to Marchant’s Hold now. The lighted lamps shone rosy +from the drawing-room windows, and she kept carefully out of the +patches of light on the gravel where they stood. + +“I shall miss you, then, every second! And, look here, Ismay! I hate +the business. I only do it because he was my friend, and I feel bound +to it. Do you understand?” + +“I dare say you will hate it more before it is done,” she said, as if +in idleness, and afterward he remembered, when the stone he had set +rolling threatened to crush all he loved on earth. “But it interests me +in a dreadful sort of way. When you come back you will tell me what +you found, won’t you? I won’t tell. It shall be your secret, like your +loving me is mine.” + +“I’ll tell you anything you ask,” he said tenderly. “But I wish you +would let me have my way, and be engaged to you openly. I would like to +go in and tell Cristiane now!” He moved toward the great door with so +much purpose that she flew after him. + +“No, no!” she cried. “Mother hates you; she’d send me away straight +off; you’d never see me again. If you tell it means that I shall +suffer.” + +“Then I’ll wait forever.” In the shadow of an evergreen he caught her +to him, as a man holds his only love on earth. “Till you tell me to +speak I will hold my tongue. Will that satisfy you? And, instead of my +coming to Marchant’s Hold, will you meet me at the stile, at five, the +day after to-morrow? It will be best, if we are to keep our secret.” + +She gave a long sigh of relief, resting for perhaps the last time +against the strong shoulders of the man who might know things when he +came from London that would part them forever. + +“That is all I want,” she said; “just to let no one know but us two! I +must go now; good-by.” + +“But I want to come in.” He had not let her go. + +She smiled in the darkness. + +“And even Thomas would know from your face! And how should I look +coming home at this hour with you?” + +“You are too worldly-wise. How do you know all these things?” +half-proud of her shrewdness and sense. “You’re too young to know them.” + +“Sometimes I feel old, so old,” she answered gravely, “as if I had +lived lives and lives.” + +“And loved?” catching her jealously, as if they were not talking +nonsense. “And loved, Ismay?” + +For answer her arms went round his neck in quick passion. + +“I never loved any one on earth till I loved you,” she whispered. +“There is only you for me now, till I die. Even if you tire of me--or +hate me.” + +She stepped away from him and into the house before he could answer, +before he could even tighten his arms to hold her. He turned away for +his long walk home with a strange loneliness, as if his very soul had +left him when Ismay went. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE DOG IN THE MANGER. + + +Could Cylmer have seen her through that night of wan fear? In and out +of her bed, like a restless ghost, she who had always before slept like +a baby; crouching sullenly over her fire, hardening her heart to meet +what must come; till a sudden thought would strike with an unendurable +pang of terror, and make her start to her feet and walk round and +round her room, wild and terrible in her beauty, all her flaxen hair +streaming over the face that was more white than her nightgown. + +“Murder will out, and by to-morrow night he may have brought it home to +her! What shall I do? Oh! What shall I do?” + +She stopped in front of the roses her lover had given her, and with +sudden frantic hands tore them to shreds; crimson petals, green leaves, +fluttered over her muslin night-dress; the thorns of the stripped +stalks tore her hands, wounded her bare white feet. As if the pain +had brought back her senses, she gave a long sigh, and stood quite +motionless; presently, she sat down very wearily on her tossed bed. + +“I’m behaving like a fool!” she thought. “He will be back and tell me +what was found before the police act on it, or can get very far if they +do. And, for all I know, it may be the greatest piece of luck we could +have, and draw suspicion off on a false scent, and save us. I will get +out of him all they are doing in time to run, if we must”--she winced +in spite of herself--“but we won’t run while there is one chance left. +I can’t, I won’t, lose him!” + +Her lips curved in that hard smile that could make even Mrs. Trelane +shrink. She rose and put on a thick dressing-gown. As calmly as if +it were broad daylight, and the proper time for sewing, Miss Trelane +opened a locked drawer, and took out a roll of material she had been at +some pains to obtain. She got down on the floor and cut out and sewed +hard for the next two hours, not that there was any haste to complete +her task, but for the solace of the effort. The thick softness of the +white satin she was working with made her frown with some emotion that +she fought down, for she thought of the dress that she would never wear +standing at the altar with the man she loved. + +“Well, I can bear it as other women have before!” she thought grimly, +sewing with firm, practical fingers. “Thank fortune, all this wants is +good, solid basting that can’t come out! I would find no joy in sewing +my fingers off, even to get a hold on Marcus Wray.” + +She gave a little stretch of fatigue, and surveyed her work when the +last stitch was in. Then she let her dressing-gown slip off her lovely +shoulders, and put on the dress she had so hastily run together. + +“Lucky I haven’t to powder my hair!” she thought, as she piled it high +on her head deftly, without going near the glass. “Powder dropped on +Miss Le Marchant’s red felt stair carpets would be too remarkable even +for Thomas!” She stooped as she spoke, took a filmy white scarf, yards +long, from the open dresser, and put it over her head and round her +slim body, leaving the long wide ends to float gauzily behind her as +she walked over to the long glass set in her wardrobe. + +And even she was startled at what she saw in the light of the nearly +burned-out candles. + +Tall and strangely slender in the short-waisted, tight-skirted gown, +that clung to her shape, her pale face ghostly under the filmy crape +that veiled it, only her eyes burning dark, fiery, and revengeful, +to give it any semblance of life, she stood the living image of the +pictured woman up-stairs. In her bare feet she moved to and fro in +front of the glass, till she learned a movement that made her look as +if she floated rather than walked. + +“That is all right, I think!” she mused. “Thomas and Jessie are +the only people I should ever be in danger of meeting, and I think +I am quite enough to make them howl and run, without stopping to +investigate. But as things are now I don’t feel so much interest in +sneaking round at night, trying to catch Marcus out. My parent’s neck +and my own happiness seem a trifle more important.” + +She pulled off the old-fashioned frock as carelessly as she dared, +considering its frail putting together, and stuffed it and the scarf +into the drawer, picked up every thread and scrap of satin that might +betray her occupation, and burned them. She was asleep almost before +she had extinguished the candles and got her head on her pillow, and +as she slept the night skies burst in rain, and at the roar of the +downpour on the windows, the girl’s quiet face twitched with pain. +In her dream it was the noise of the crowd waiting to see her mother +hanged! + +In the morning it still rained heavily. For one moment she hoped the +weather would keep Cylmer at home, but then she remembered that rich +people with closed carriages cared very little for rain and wind. And +she wanted him to go, the sooner she knew what had been found, the +better. + +“Ismay!” Cristiane said at breakfast, “what have you been doing to your +poor hands?” + +“Briars,” concisely. + +“You shouldn’t try to pick those thorny rose-berries without gloves, +town child!” + +And at the laughing voice Ismay shuddered. Truly, such as she had no +right with roses at all. + +“What are we going to do all day?” pursued the heiress discontentedly, +the riches and luxury of her house being too old a story to enjoy of a +wet day. “Just look at the rain! Let’s go out, and get dripping.” + +“And have pneumonia when we come in,” with practical experience of +wettings in the days when she ran errands, half-clad. “Not I!” + +“But I’m bored,” peevishly. + +“Are you? Then thank Heaven! It’s a very healthy state of mind,” said +Ismay drolly. “I wish I were.” + +“Aren’t you?” with her violet eyes wide. + +Ismay shook her head. + +“Too glad to be in out of that!” she observed coolly. “I used to be out +in it too often when we were poor.” + +“I’d like to be poor, and work,” Cristiane said thoughtfully. “It must +be so amusing never to know where you’re going to get to-morrow’s +dinner! Something like gambling.” + +“Very like it; when you lose, and have no dinner.” + +“You’re so material!” Cristiane said reproachfully. “Now I want to be +amused. Even stupid old Miles would be better than nobody.” + +Ismay was so startled that she had blushed crimson before she had time +to turn away her head. Utterly at loss she sat as guilty-looking as the +silliest schoolgirl who ever adored a music-master in secret! + +“Stupid old Miles!” she could have boxed her hostess’ ears with rage. +And for once her hostess was clear-eyed. + +A suspicion had sprung up full grown in her mind as she saw Ismay’s +confusion. Why should she get so red at the mere name of a man she +had only seen twice? Could those solitary walks of hers have covered +meetings with him? He was nearly always hanging about--or had been! + +Cristiane had refused him, certainly, but she was none the less stung +at the mere thought that he was daring to console himself; she felt +exactly like the proverbial dog in the manger, even if she did not want +the oats no one else should have them. For the first time, Miles Cylmer +seemed a desirable possession to the spoiled child. + +“What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Don’t look so cross.” + +Ismay threw back her head, with a lovely laugh, that rang with +innocence. + +“I’m not cross,” she cried, “it’s you that are a baby! I told you long +ago that you really liked him.” Her sweet voice gave no sign of the +fright in her mind lest this girl, who had everything, might try to get +back the one that was Ismay’s all, and so strike aside the arm that +stood between her and death. + +“I didn’t like him, or I could have married him,” Cristiane retorted, +with intention; Ismay should see that Miles was hers, and not to be +interfered with. + +“Why on earth didn’t you, then? He’s so good-looking,” said the other +imperturbably. + +“I get too tired of him. He was a friend of father’s, and always +bothering over here.” As usual, her crimson lips quivered at her +father’s name. + +“Oh, Cristiane--darling, forgive me!” Ismay kissed her, half with real +compunction, half to mislead her. “Don’t let’s talk of him any more.” + +“I don’t want to; I hate him. He never came near me when I was in +trouble, just because I wouldn’t marry him. Did you ever hear of +anything so selfish?” smarting tears in her eyes. + +Ismay reflected swiftly that she must burn that penciled card. + +“I suppose,” Cristiane was going on, “he will be back again +soon--saying he loves me, and all that, but he can die of love, for all +me.” + +In spite of her anxious heart it was all Ismay could do to restrain the +cold, clear laugh that was in her throat. + +“I wish that nice Mr. Wray was coming back sooner,” Cristiane observed, +when her equanimity was further restored. “A fortnight is a very long +time when you’re dull. I like him far better than Miles Cylmer. He’s so +much cleverer--and kinder,” dropping her voice. + +“Kinder? Look here, Cristiane, listen to me,” said Ismay, very +earnestly. “He isn’t kind at all, and I wouldn’t trust him, if I were +you, with my little finger.” + +“Why? I believe you’re cross, Ismay, because Mr. Wray talks more to +your mother and me than to you.” + +“I wish he were struck dumb, and would never speak again,” replied +Ismay viciously. “I don’t like him because I think he’s a bad man, that +is why.” + +“Then I shall like him,” with defiance. “Bad men in books are always +much the nicest; I have often longed to know one.” + +“Well, you have your wish!” returned Ismay calmly. + +“Listen, I hear wheels!” cried Cristiane suddenly. “There’s some one +coming. Even if it’s only Miles, he shall stay to lunch.” + +Indifferently, since Miles was in London, Ismay followed her, to look +out on the rain-beaten sweep of gravel. Yet could it be Miles? For a +closed fly from the station was in front of the hall door. + +Cristiane gave a little shriek. + +“It’s--why, Ismay, it’s your mother! And Mr. Wray,” as a man followed +Mrs. Trelane leisurely onto the streaming terrace. + +She rushed to the door to greet the arrivals. + +Ismay Trelane, white as ashes, was left alone to meet a terror that +made her arms fall inert to her sides. + +What had brought her mother back? And what was hurrying Marcus Wray, +that his fortnight of grace had been turned to two days? + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +“A CHARMING MAN.” + + +Thomas, waiting that evening on the dinner-party, beamed as he directed +his subordinates, so joyful was he to see the old light of happiness +and gaiety on his young mistress’ face. + +The strange gentleman from London talked so well, and was so quietly +amusing, that the old man had to turn away at times to hide the smile +forbidden to a well-bred servant. But he showed his gratification by +pressing on Mr. Wray Sir Gaspard’s priceless Burgundy, which by degrees +warmed that individual to the heart, so that important things seemed +curiously less important, even to him. + +Ismay surveyed the party from a different point of view. + +There sat her mother, probably a murderess, certainly a thief; next +her, Wray, a receiver of stolen goods, a blackmailer, with an awful +crime waiting for committal; at the head of the table, Cristiane, with +death at her elbow, and against them all no one but a girl, fearing +all things, hoping nothing. It was certainly an unusual party. + +Mrs. Trelane, powdered, painted, nervously gay, was reckless in her +conversation. + +Ismay, with resigned despair, did not try to warn her even by a glance; +Cristiane, perhaps, did not understand her wildest sallies. + +“If she did, she’d leave the table,” the girl thought scornfully, +looking at the other girl’s smiling density. “But I wonder, wonder, +wonder, what brought him down!” + +Mr. Wray caught her glance that was so hard and searching. + +“Dear Ismay,” he said paternally, “have a little mercy! Don’t sit +there, wishing I had stayed at home.” + +“I didn’t know you had a home!” cuttingly. “Have you?” + +For some unknown reason the shot told; perhaps Mr. Wray knew more of +domesticity than he avowed, for he changed his smile with abruptness. + +“I hope to have one--some day!” his tone that of a man who takes an +undeserved wound bravely; his glance, that only Ismay saw, a cold and +savage threat. + +Cristiane flushed. How could Ismay, whom her father had saved from +starvation, dare to taunt a man, who could not be too well off, with +his poverty? + +“Homes are uncertain things!” she observed acidly, and Ismay could have +wrung her hands under the table as she saw her mother look with open +mockery at Wray. + +What were they going to do? + +“There’ll be no chance of my finding out by listening,” she thought +forlornly. “They must have done all the talking they needed in the +train. Their plans--his plan”--with bitter correction, “must be cut and +dried by now, and that idiot of a girl will walk into their trap! + +“But perhaps he means to stand by my mother on account of the money. He +must--it would be murder wasted, if he did not. And not even he would +waste murder.” + +Her face was more somber than she knew, as her thoughts, in spite +of her, flew to Cylmer and his business in London. And Wray saw it; +he was used to rudeness in her, but not to gloom, and, in spite of +the cheering Burgundy, he was suspicious. At bedtime, as he lit Mrs. +Trelane’s candle for her in the hall, he spoke to her angrily, and +quietly, having ignored her for Cristiane throughout the evening. + +“What’s the matter with Ismay? Have you been fool enough to tell her +things? She looks simply stuffed with righteous wrath.” + +Ismay, on the first step of the stairs, pricked up her ears at his +tone. But Cristiane, her arm through hers, was dragging her on--her +young blood as light from Marcus Wray’s respectfully adoring eyes as +his had been from her father’s Burgundy! + +Miss Trelane, for the second time that day, longed to box her ears. + +“I hate fools,” she thought grimly, “and this one will ruin herself +and me, too, if I can’t teach her some sense. And the worst of it is, +I can’t help trying to take care of the silly little donkey. I wish I +could speak out to her, but she’d only think me crazy.” + +Cristiane gave an ecstatic squeeze to the inert arm in hers. + +“Isn’t he a dear?” she whispered, as they turned the corner of the +great stairs. + +Ismay stopped the second they were out of sight from below, and was +listening with all her ears, but not to Cristiane. + +Wray was just underneath her, and his voice floated up to her in a +far-reaching whisper. + +“Mind you find out what ails the girl before you go to bed, and come +and tell me in the library. She makes me angry with her tragedy airs.” + +“Nothing so fatal as a whisper! I’ll mark that for future reference,” +reflected the eavesdropper, with lightning speed. “What did you say, +Cristiane, dear?” + +“If he’s a bad man, they’re charming things. And he’s going to stay a +week; I asked him. Won’t it be nice? Come now, tell the truth! Don’t +you honestly think he’s charming?” + +“Charming? Yes! But you’ll turn his head if you let him know it.” + +Charming was exactly the word; people used it about a snake fascinating +a bird before it killed it. + +“Of course, I sha’n’t let him know it,” returned Cristiane. “Good +night; mind you’re nice to him to-morrow, because he’s going to stay,” +with a laughing nod of power, since it was her house and her guest that +were in question. + +“She won’t let him know it! When she’s been gazing at him all the +evening,” said Miss Trelane derisively, when she was safe in her own +bedroom. “For pure downright idiocy, commend me to a well-brought-up +girl, who thinks the world is a playground where little geese can wear +gold collars and show them off to the nice, kind foxes!” but she did +not smile at her own parable, as she locked her door and got into bed +with incredible speed. + +She had not been there five minutes before the door-handle was turned +sharply. + +“Ismay, open the door at once! You can’t be in bed,” cried her mother, +from the corridor, with the assurance of a person who finds a door +unexpectedly locked. + +“Yes, I am!” with childlike surprise. “What’s the matter? I don’t want +to get up again.” + +“Let me in at once,” giving the door a cross jerk. + +“Delighted!” she crossed the floor with swift bare feet, and turned the +key. + +“What on earth did you lock your door for?” + +Mrs. Trelane banged it, too, behind her as she swept in, her gauzy, +glittering gown, that was fit for the stage, trailing behind her. + +“And you’ll never keep your looks if you’re going to get into bed like +a plowboy, without even washing your face.” + +“It’s quite clean. I never use powder,” was the retort. + +“Pray don’t be clever. I’m dead tired.” Mrs. Trelane dropped into the +most comfortable chair in the room. “I can’t appreciate it. I suppose +you locked your door because you’re annoyed with me for bringing Marcus +here?” + +Ismay, sitting on the edge of her bed, white and exquisite, rubbed one +foot with the shell-pink heel of the other; and looked ashamed, as one +who is about to disgrace herself by a chicken-hearted confession. + +“I always lock my door in this house at night,” looking at her feet. +“I’m--afraid!” + +“Afraid? What on earth of?” + +“Nothing--on earth,” whispering. “But haven’t you heard anything funny +since you came here?” + +“Nothing so funny as this!” contemptuously. “Do talk sensibly. I came +to say something. Do you suppose I came back to this dull hole for fun?” + +“I am talking sensibly.” For the first time Ismay looked up, and her +gaze would have made the fortune of a tragedienne. Deep, earnest, +magnetic, her eyes caught and held her mother’s. + +“Do you mean to tell me you don’t know about the things there is in +this house?” she demanded. “The thing that moves softly at night, +up and down the stairs, that you can hear if you stand in the +corridor--coming closer, closer every minute, till it passes you with a +cold like snow in your face, and you can’t move for fright----” She was +moving her hands in a strange waving motion to and fro, and a strange +uneasiness caught at Helen Trelane’s wretched soul, even while she gave +a scoffing laugh. + +“The thing that is very old and evil, and means no good to any in the +house. Because, if you don’t know, ask Thomas! You saw how frightened +he was the day I told before him my dream about the music at night,” +with a return to her practical manner that was somehow more impressive +than her mother liked. + +“What has your dream of a piano being played in the night got to do +with servants’ stories about ghosts?” Yet Mrs. Trelane could not help +glancing at the shut door. With Marcus in the house, with the world +against her on every side, it would be too awful to get nervous terrors +on her brain. + +“It wasn’t a dream--and it wasn’t a piano,” said Ismay quietly. “Thomas +can tell you; I’ve had enough without talking about it. And, if I were +you, I’d get to bed before it got much later; I want to get my door +locked. I don’t care much for those dark corridors outside. And if you +get frightened out there it won’t be of any use coming to my door, +for no power on earth would make me unlock it after twelve o’clock at +night. This is a vile, abominable house, and I’m afraid in it. So now +you know.” + +“I know I never heard anything so silly,” viciously; yet the cowering, +apprehensive look the girl gave at the corridor, as her mother threw +open the door into it made Mrs. Trelane uncomfortable. + +Ismay hesitated for an instant before she locked the door and returned +to bed. + +“I never found out why she came back, or why she brought him,” she +mused. “But it would have been no good to ask. She would only have +made up something; she never looked at me except that once, when I +made her. And it would not be wise to go down and listen after telling +her ghost-stories. She didn’t believe them, and she’ll tell him, and +he won’t believe them, and they’ll laugh. But all the same he will +investigate every mouse that squeaks in the passage, and I should get +caught.” + +She got into bed, suddenly conscious of being very weary as she nestled +into the warm sheets, but her mind was alert enough. + +“I’ll give them time to interview Thomas, and let my tale sink in a +little. I don’t believe they will say anything worth knowing to-night. +And by to-morrow night I shall know more. I’ll probably be able to +frighten her into anything by to-morrow night!” + +Yet the next instant she sat up and listened. She had been right; that +was the rustle of her mother’s dress, as she swept by to her bedroom. +Ismay sat perfectly quiet as the light steps paused and Mrs. Trelane +tried the door again. + +Not a sound answered her sharp “Ismay!” but the girl did not smile as +she spoke to herself when the steps had passed on. + +“I’ve convinced her that I’m not to be got at, at night, from fright,” +she muttered, “if I were not really sick with fright for her life--and +other things--it might be funny!” and as she lay down she shivered. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A GHOSTLY EAVESDROPPER. + + +Mr. Wray sat by the library fire the next night as the clock chimed +twelve. There was whisky beside him, and soda, but he was not drinking, +only staring at the hearth, and tapping with his finger on his knee, +with the old action of driving in a nail. + +The day had been long, hideously long, to every one but Cristiane le +Marchant, who had drunk in specious, covert admiration as a thirsty man +drinks water. To Mrs. Trelane it had been one effort of the nerves not +to give way to her misgivings; to Ismay the hours had dragged, and yet +flown, in her fears that to-morrow might be fraught with danger that +could not be evaded; her longing, that was yet a dread, for Cylmer’s +return. And, come what might, Wray must not see them together. + +Marcus, until ten o’clock, had been coldly uneasy, despite all his +careful politeness. Since then the deep lines about his mouth were +drawn less tightly, and yet the look on his face did not reassure Helen +Trelane, as she came noiselessly into the room. + +“Well, you have not overexerted yourself to get here!” he did not stop +the tapping that was enough to get on an innocent woman’s nerves. + +“Do you know I have been waiting for an hour? Though, of course I +should be at your disposal till four in the morning!” with sarcastic +deference. + +“I couldn’t come,” she retorted. “Cristiane came to my room to brush +her hair, and I had to pretend to get ready for bed.” + +“Evidently.” For her carefully dressed hair had been changed to a small +coil that made her ten years older. “Well, now you are here, I have +some news!” + +“Mark!” she caught him by the arm. “Quick, tell me. Good, or bad?” + +“It is always ‘Mark’ when you are afraid of your neck!” his tone was +smoothly uncivil, his action openly brutal as he shook off her hand. + +“Good, if one can believe it,” he took a telegram from his pocket. + +“And don’t you?” + +“I’ve no particular reason to; Van Hoeft was always a liar,” coolly. +“Yet I think he knows it wouldn’t pay to lie to me.” + +“Who’s Van Hoeft? Give it to me.” She snatched it from his hand. + +“A henchman of mine, in Amsterdam. Be good enough,” peremptorily, “not +to read it at the top of your sweetly penetrating voice.” + +“There’s no one to hear.” But she did moderate the strained pitch of +her voice a little. + +“‘The parcel cannot be traced beyond Paris. Will wire if any news of +it.’” + +“The parcel. Does he mean the diamonds?” she cried, raging at his +sullen calm. “Why don’t you answer?” + +“Of course he does, else why would it be good news?” + +“And you think he may be deceiving you?” + +“I think he may be fool enough to try to keep me quiet while he saves +his own skin.” + +“Then why don’t you go and find out,” her voice was harsh, ringing. +“Are you going to sit here and let us both be ruined?” + +“I am going to sit here, because I am afraid to be seen in either Paris +or Amsterdam,” he returned as carelessly as if he spoke of avoiding a +draft of air. “And because I’ve a good thing here, and the sooner it’s +managed the better.” + +Twice the woman tried to speak and could not. + +“What was in that paragraph, exactly?” she said at last. + +“Exactly this.” He drew out a clipping from his pocketbook and read it +aloud. + + “There is at last some clue to the mystery surrounding the death of + the late Lord Abbotsford, whose tragic end our readers will remember. + Some of the missing diamonds have been found at Amsterdam by a + clever detective, and the tracing of their whole history since their + disappearance can now be only a matter of time.” + +“You’re sure that’s all?” she moistened her lip with his full tumbler +of whisky and soda. + +“It’s enough, isn’t it? Oh, pray keep my drink!” as she handed it to +him. “I prefer a clean glass.” + +“Mark, you must see,” she wailed wretchedly, “that it’s no time to have +a nine days’ wonder here. It would be madness to draw attention to +either of us, now.” She leaned forward, haggard, imploring. “I’ll give +you anything, all I have, if you only go away and let the girl be.” + +“I told you before that was abject rot,” he exclaimed icily. “I’m not +playing for the few pounds you would forget to send when I was out of +your way. I mean to have all this”--glancing around him--“and Ismay, +in a satin gown, to take off my boots.” For once his calm was gone; he +breathed sharply. Mrs. Trelane rocked to and fro in her chair, with +fear and loathing. + +“She’ll never have you,” she said through her teeth. + +“Then you can swing,” said Mr. Wray, with a significant finger at his +own throat. + +And this time she made no protestation of her innocence. Any one +listening might well have believed in her guilt. When she spoke again +her voice was hollow, like a dying woman’s. + +“You can’t poison her without being found out.” + +Mr. Wray threw back his head and laughed noiselessly, as was his habit. +The joke, for some unknown reason, was apparently an excellent one. + +“Dear lady, how your mind reverts to a groove,” he said, surveying +her with half-shut eyes that made him more hideous than ever. “Your +method is not going to be employed again,” and he laughed once more, +unmercifully. + +“Mark,” she was crying hysterically, “don’t laugh like that! You’ll +kill me if you laugh. You frighten me--I could scream”--her sobs broke +her words. “Tell me what you mean, and let me go.” + +“I mean an accident, then; a common or garden accident. There couldn’t +be any fuss about that; it might happen to every one. And the less you +know about it the better. If you knew you’d do something foolish, and +the whole thing would be made a mess of.” + +“It will put us both in our graves, never mind what I do.” She turned +on him fiercely. + +He got up coolly and pulled up the blind, staring out into the +moonlight night. + +“Does it interest you to know that it’s freezing hard? And there’s not +a breath of wind on the lake,” he asked. + +“Nothing interests me while you live to curse my eyes,” she said with +unutterable bitterness, and in the silence of the room he laughed to +himself. + +“Then let me advise you to drink that whisky and go to bed,” he said, +dropping the blind and turning around. “Also to rejoice that you will +not encounter any one in the passages,” glancing distastefully at the +channels her tears had marked through her powder. + +“You have prepared me for a good night’s rest,” she returned heavily, +opening the door and making a few steps into the dark hall outside. + +The next minute she flew back again. + +“Mark, quick--for Heaven’s sake! There’s some one, something, there. I +can’t go.” + +“You don’t mean you are believing in that crazy lie of Thomas?” he said +after a contemptuous survey of the empty hall, lamp in hand. “There +isn’t a creature stirring.” + +“He believes it; Jessie believes it.” + +“And in spite of that they also believe that when any one dies they go +either to hell or to heaven,” he jeered. “Can’t you see the thing’s +absurd?” + +“But I heard something. I did, indeed. Oh, I’m nervous, unstrung. I +can’t face those dark stairs and passages. You will have to go up with +me.” + +“Because Thomas is hanging round to see that all the lights are out,” +shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose neither of those two girls would +come down for anything.” + +Mrs. Trelane shook her head. “Thomas thinks we are all in bed. He +hasn’t left a light anywhere. Jessie sleeps in a room off Cristiane’s; +she would never let her get out of her bed. And Ismay--oh, Mark! even +Ismay is afraid here at night. She locks her door and won’t open it +till daylight--for fear.” + +“Then she has her weak side, for all her airs.” + +He moved, lamp in hand, to the foot of the stairs. + +“There, I’ll stay here till you are in your room,” he said resignedly. +“I wonder why women were created cowards.” + +But she did not answer him. As quickly and almost as lightly as Ismay, +she had sped up the stairs and was groping through the dark hall above +their own room. When she reached it she was breathless; for just as +Ismay had said, she had heard that faint footfall, coming closer every +minute; inexorable, ghostly, in the silent house where no one waked +save she and Marcus Wray. + +The latter had heard nothing, nor would he have cared if he had. In so +old a house night noises were a foregone conclusion. + +He returned to his neglected whisky and soda, and a cigar. But there +was no bite to the whisky, no taste in the tobacco. His mind was not as +easy as he liked, in spite of his friend in Amsterdam. There had been +a weak point in the underground career of those diamonds, and Mr. Wray +knew it. + +“What has to be done must be done at once,” he said aloud, stretching +out his long legs in Sir Gaspard’s chair. “And then I’ll be off to lie +low till I can reap the harvest. My old friend here can’t escape me, +even if she dared to try. And the weather has turned cold,” his voice +changed abruptly, as if something pleased him. “It’s freezing hard. +If all goes well the day after to-morrow will see the fair Helen an +heiress, after which I shall spend a few months living retired--in +Bohemia.” + +Yawning, he extinguished the light and went up-stairs to bed. This +country life was at present convenient; in future it would be +profitable; but it was certainly deadly dull. + +“To-morrow I’ll amuse myself with my dear friend and well-wisher, +Ismay,” he reflected. “I like to see her hate me, it adds to the +pleasure of having her under my fingers. Hello!” as he stood in his +door, candle in hand--the candle he would not give Helen Trelane for +pure deviltry--“what’s that?” + +From somewhere far off a tinkling tune came softly, yet clearly; an +unearthly sound in the midnight hush. + +“Thomas is up to some game, I suppose, and I’m damned if I know why! +But I’ll choke him off now, once for all.” He started in search of the +mysterious sound, kicking off his patent-leather slippers that he might +steal unseen on the erring Thomas. At the head of the stairs the music +ceased, not suddenly, but with the curious falling cadence that marked +the end of the tune. But music was lost on Mr. Wray. + +“I’ve got off the track,” he thought, descending once more, somewhat +gingerly in his stocking feet. The instant he was in the lower passage +the air tinkled out again with a mocking lightness. The sound certainly +came from above him, and he ran up again, utterly careless if he were +heard or not. + +There was only an empty passage to be seen, door after door on each +side of it. He flung them open, one by one, but only disused bedrooms +met his scrutiny. As he threw the fifth door wide his candle went out, +not quickly, but slowly, as if something ailed the wick. Dim and blue +it faded slowly and the music that had seemed so near was gone. + +A cloud was over the moon; he could not see a yard into the room in +front of him, but the same cold disused air met him that he had felt in +all the other rooms. + +“Thomas and his remarkable ghost seem to be founded on fact,” he +thought angrily, jarred, in spite of himself, by that slow fading of +his light. “Well, they can play till doomsday for all I care; but first +I will make sure of Thomas!” + +He stumbled down to his own room in the dark, stubbing his toes +unmercifully. Then with a relit candle he sought the small room next +the butler’s pantry, where Thomas dwelt to guard his silver. + +The door was ajar, the old man peacefully sleeping. Whoever was +disturbing the house, it was not the gray-haired servant. Once more +Mr. Wray sought his bedroom, stopping only to try Ismay’s door with +infinite caution. + +It was locked, hard and fast. + +“The hypocritical little devil,” he muttered, “who told me that she +was never afraid of anything, and is terrified by a musical box that +some servant winds up at night! It’s just as well, though. I don’t want +Miss Ismay’s company of an evening when I am talking business with her +charming mother.” + +Ismay, seated somewhat breathless on her bed, shook with impotent rage +at that cautious hand on her door. + +“Insolent wretch!” she thought furiously. “I hope those doctored +library candles were a success. Who would think a schoolgirl trick of +a thread soaked in saltpeter and run through with a fine needle would +ever come in so usefully. But that was only a side-show. ‘The day after +to-morrow,’ he said--and ‘an accident.’ What can he have in his mind? +Oh, if I only knew. And if only Miles would come back. I could die with +this awful feeling that it is something of my own mother’s that was +found in that room.” + +She was weak with the vision flashing before her of disgrace, of the +police, of discovery, of Miles’ face when he knew, and in them she +forgot the most important words Wray had spoken that night, though she +had heard them well enough. + +“And the weather’s changed. It is freezing hard.” + +They carried Cristiane’s life and death, and her own fate hung on them, +and, shrewd as she was, Ismay overlooked them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +“I NEVER SAW IT BEFORE.” + + +The frost still held. The river that ran through Cylmer’s Ferry was +skimmed with ice; the lake at Marchant’s Hold was a shining, glittering +thing as Ismay passed it on her way to keep her tryst at the stile. +Only at one side, where a deep brook ran into it, was there a spot of +black ice. Ismay passed it without a glance as she hurried on. + +Wray had been at her elbow all the afternoon, hideous, revolting, +stinging her with veiled hints of the price that she, and she alone, +could pay for her mother’s safety. She had broken away from him at +last, with the arrival of tea and Cristiane, and before the eyes of the +heiress he had made no attempt to detain her. There was nothing she +could do down here at Marchant’s Hold. + +He laughed as he saw her hurrying out through the frozen park, as if to +get away from an unclean atmosphere and drink deep of the stainless air. + +And yet it was then that fate laughed, too, had he known it; laughed +even at that luck of Marcus Wray that the agony of a frail girl would +presently meet. + +Cylmer, straight from the station, strode to meet Ismay as she reached +the stile. + +The place was silent, deserted, and he took her in his arms. She felt +the cloth of his coat under her cheek, felt his arms tighten once more +about her, steeled herself to meet his kiss. + +Oh, God! In ten minutes, in five, would there be that between them that +would stop his kisses forevermore? + +“You’re pale.” He held her at arm’s length to look at her. “You’re +cold. I was a brute to bring you out in this freezing weather.” + +“No, no, I don’t feel it.” She led the way to the stile. “I think I am +tired. Let us sit down,” with a smile that was not like her own. + +“I thought I’d never get back,” he said, sitting down beside her, his +arm round her to draw her close. “You were right, Ismay. It was an +awful business. Don’t draw away from me, sweet! There’s not a soul to +see.” + +“Why was it awful?” For once her scarlet lips were dry. “Do you mean +you’ve found the murderer?” + +“No. But we shall; and the awful part is that it must have been a woman +who poisoned him. But let us talk of something else, of you and me. I’m +sick of the ugly side of life.” + +Sick? What would he be when he knew it all? + +“Tell me first. I like to know all you do, you know.” Would her heart +ever beat again, would he feel her strained breathlessness as she sat +within his arm? + +“What an exacting child it is,” he said. “I’ll tell you, and then we’ll +leave the whole hateful subject. When Kivers made that last search he +found where the carpet stopped at the threshold just inside the bedroom +a jewel, or a piece of one, wedged into the little crevice. It looked +as if it might have been a charm.” + +“A charm!” Mechanically she forced out the words. Oh, that tinkling +bunch of golden toys her mother always wore on a chatelaine! Why, had +she not long ago gone over them one by one? + +“I think so. For it isn’t a thing a man would be likely to wear. What +do you think?” Before she could draw her laboring breath he had laid +something in the frightened, relaxed hand that lay on her knee. “I got +Kivers to lend it to me. I wanted to look at it under a microscope.” + +“This!” She was bolt upright, clear of his embrace, staring at the +thing in her hand. “This!” relief that was agony in her voice. “I--I +never saw it before.” + +“Saw it before?” He stared at her. Then he laughed. “Saw one before, I +suppose you mean, little silly! It is an Egyptian scarab, one of their +sacred beetles that are so precious. Look at its color in the sunset.” + +Golden green, turquoise blue, in its gold setting; the beetle that was +older than Christianity glowed dully in her ungloved palm. + +But it was not its beauty that made her eyes shine, nor anything but +the rapture of knowing that never, never had her mother possessed a +thing like it. + +Had she been wronging her all this time? Had she been speaking the +truth, and Abbotsford been done to death by another hand before ever +she entered the house? If she had dared, she would have laughed out +wildly, flung her hands out in delirious joy; but she must even turn +her face from her lover, that he might not see the triumphant blood +mantling in her cheeks. + +There had been some one else in the room! + +It was all she could do not to shriek it aloud. + +“How excited you are!” he laughed. “Do you think you would make a good +detective when a little thing like this turns your head?” + +“Why should the thing have belonged to a woman?” she said irrelevantly. + +“Because a man could only wear it set in a ring, and this was never in +a ring. Don’t you see the light setting of gold round it and the broken +catch of a tiny chain? It has been a pendant, hanging for luck on a +woman’s bracelet. For deadly luck for some poor soul,” gravely. + +“You are sure it wasn’t Lord Abbotsford’s own?” with a persistence that +might make him wonder. + +“Certain. If you had ever seen Abbotsford you would see the absurdity. +He was never known to wear even a jeweled stud. He told me once that +he always thought of the money that was sunk in women’s diamonds, and +groaned inwardly at the waste of capital. He was never very free with +money, poor chap. He was a man’s man, not a woman’s.” + +“Yet you said he had a photograph that was not his fiancée’s?” +wonderingly. + +“Oh, that’s different.” Cylmer grew red under his bronze. “But you +wouldn’t understand, and I don’t want you to. Come home, darling mine; +it’s too cold for you here.” + +Home, to Marcus and his evil plots; to the mother she had wronged in +her thoughts ever since that awful day, but who, innocent or guilty, +was putting her head blindly into another noose. + +“I wish I were going home with you,” she cried, with a shyness +that made her hide her face the second the words were out. “I hate +Marchant’s Hold!” + +“You could come to-morrow if you would let me have my way,” rapture at +her avowal in his voice. “Look up, Ismay. Don’t be ashamed. There is +nothing that can’t be said between you and me.” + +“I wish I thought so,” she murmured with sudden significance. “Perhaps +I shall some day. What are you and the detectives going to do?” she +asked, holding the little beetle tight. + +“Find out who the woman is who was in his rooms that day--and then, I +suppose, I’ll strain every nerve to keep her from being hanged as she +deserves,” with a laugh at his own weakness. “Women have always been +kind to me, my Ismay,” simply and without the least conceit, as though +such kindness were a debt he must repay. But she guessed shrewdly that +many a woman had loved Miles Cylmer, and worn sorrow at her heart for +her folly. + +“Miles, if I had done it could you love me still?” she said, on an +impulse. + +“You? Don’t even in fun class yourself with a woman like that!” sternly. + +“Well, then, my mother!” It was almost a cry. “If she had done it would +you marry me? Tell me.” + +Cylmer was absolutely truthful. For a moment he looked away from her, +awkwardly. + +“Ismay, don’t ask me,” he answered very low. “I--I don’t know.” + +And he never turned to see that the knife had gone home to the hilt. + +“You’re quite right,” she spoke slowly, flatly. “I shouldn’t have said +it. Take me home now. You’ll tell me, won’t you, if you think you are +going to find--that woman?” + +“Yes,” reluctantly. “But I wish I had never named a woman like that to +you. Wait, Ismay,” with a motion of his broad shoulders, as if he shook +off the memory of a distasteful burden, “I want to give you something +first.” + +He drew a case from his pocket, and even in the light that was nearly +gone from the sky she saw something flash as he opened it. The next +instant he slipped a band of great diamonds, each one a fortune, on her +smooth white finger. + +“With my body I thee worship,” he quoted softly, his eyes, that were +her heaven, bent on her changing face. “I will say that once more when +I put another ring on your finger.” + +For a moment her hard-held composure was gone. + +“Mark,” she stammered, “I can’t wear it.” + +“Mark! My name isn’t Mark.” He looked at her hardly, sharply in the +dusk. “What do you mean, Ismay? Are you dreaming, or do you think you +are talking to another man?” + +Appalled by her own slip of the tongue, she could not speak. What was +this love doing to her, that she was losing her nerve, her self-command? + +“Ismay, answer me!” How stern his voice was. “Is there any other man +who ever said he loved you, that you should think of him now?” + +With the sure instinct that the truth alone could answer him, she +turned to him, her face white and hard as he had never seen it. + +“Did you think I meant you when I said ‘Mark’? I meant”--somehow, she +seemed as tall as he as she faced him--“the man my mother means to +marry me to. He is staying with us now. When I said his name and not +yours I meant that with his eyes on me I would never dare to wear it.” + +“Staying with you now? What for?” His heart revolted at the thought of +guests in a house of mourning. “And why should you mind his seeing it? +What is he to you?” + +“Nothing. A thing so small that I would kill myself before I fell into +his hands. And that is what would happen if he saw me wearing your +ring.” + +“Ismay, don’t speak in riddles. Tell me what you mean. What right has +any man to object to your wearing my ring?” + +“Don’t speak to me like that. I can’t bear it.” To his shame he saw +that she was crying. Ismay, who never cried, to whose eyes tears were +strangers! + +“Oh, he can do anything, anything,” she sobbed. “He--he knows something +about my mother; she is afraid of him.” + +“My sweet, my poor sweet.” The man who had done his best to threaten +that mother into leaving Marchant’s Hold felt suddenly guilty and +ashamed. “What can I say to you? But if you would listen to me and get +your mother on my side I think I could make short work of him for her.” + +“Can you blot out the past?” said Ismay Trelane. + +She wiped away her tears that shamed her; was she no stronger than +Cristiane that she must cry in her pain? + +Very pitifully the man kissed her. + +“I would do anything on earth for you!” he whispered. “Can’t you tell +me what it is he knows?” + +“She’s my mother.” Once more she held her head up, proudly, lest he +should see her wince at her mother’s shame. “And as for Marcus Wray, I +will beat him yet, and then you can marry me--if you will.” + +“I’d rather help you.” But she made no answer as they hurried homeward, +his ring still on her finger, the little scarab, that he had forgotten, +safe inside the palm of her other hand. + +“I’m coming over to-morrow to see Cristiane,” he threatened, as he left +her in the garden. + +“Oh, Miles, don’t,” she cried sharply; “or, if you come, wait for me +there by the lake behind those cedars. I daren’t see you before Marcus +Wray. And yet I may want you.” + +“What do you mean, sweet?” + +But she only laughed, and the laugh was not good to hear. + +“I don’t know; but you’ll see,” and she was gone. There was nothing to +tell him that by to-morrow she thought to catch Marcus Wray red-handed, +and so would never fear him any more. Her heart was lighter than for +many a day as she locked away the little blue-green beetle that Cylmer +had forgotten. The diamond ring she hid away with it. Never till the +owner of his scarab was found would she dare to put it on. And, oh! +would it be to-morrow? + +But at the thought her heart sank again. The owner of the lost scarab +must be found first, and how was she to do it? + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE GRATITUDE OF CRISTIANE. + + +No day that held murder and sudden death in it ever dawned more fair to +see than the next morning. + +The sun shone sweetly on the frozen world, the robins came confidently +to the dining-room window, red-breasted, certain of crumbs; the lake +shone as glittering glass; the cold, sweet air of morning was like wine +to the nerves as Ismay, after breakfast, stood at the window feeding +the hungry birds. + +She almost wondered at her own fear of Marcus Wray this morning. The +look of latent savagery was all gone from his calm, clean-shaven face +as he stood by the fire idly smoking a cigarette. And the strained, +expectant horror was gone from her mother’s face. For some reason or +other, the awful purpose of the day had been postponed. There was +relief at Ismay’s heart as she read those faces. + +“We are a nice, harmonious, affectionate household for one more day. I +suppose he has his reasons,” she thought. But she did not want to catch +his eye. She stood with an indifferent shoulder to him as he moved +toward the door. “What, Cristiane?” She started from her reverie as if +she were shot. + +Cristiane was eying her like a kitten who has just scratched. + +“I only said you and Miles were very late last night,” she repeated +viciously. + +Ismay could not speak. She made instead a quick step toward the door +that had barely closed behind Wray. Was he out of hearing, or was he +there still? + +“I--and Miles!” she said coldly. “What do you mean?” + +Mrs. Trelane, reading a letter, fairly dropped it as she stared at the +two. What had Ismay been doing? Was the girl crazy? + +Cristiane laughed, like a child pleased with mischief. + +“Don’t look so angry,” she remarked. “I was only trying to pay you +for--you know what!” with a nod in the direction of the departed Wray. + +“You two children!” said Mrs. Trelane, with an indulgent smile, that +covered her relief that this was only play. + +But Ismay, facing Cristiane, was not so certain. There was a something +in the baby face of the only child that she did not like. + +“She saw us! And if she tells Marcus I’m done,” she reflected. + +But Cristiane, as she purred an amiable apology, had no intention of +telling Marcus. She meant to have Marcus and Miles both, and something +warned even her that it would not be well to speak of Ismay to Wray. + +And Ismay, in spite of the exquisite day, was feeling strangely dull. +A deadly lassitude was in all her limbs; the strain of constant, +racking thought for the girl who was so spoiled, the mother who was so +careless, was telling on her. + +She saw Wray go out, and Cristiane busy writing a note, to whom she did +not care, and crept away to a dark corner of the hall where a screen +hid her from passers-by. While things were quiet she must sleep, or she +would break down. Had there been anything the matter with her coffee? + +But she could think no longer. She dropped on the seat behind the +screen, never stopping to consider that she was clearly visible from +the turn of the stairs overhead, and slept like a dead thing. + +Hours passed, and she knew nothing, felt nothing, except that once +she tried to brush what felt like a fly from her cheek; once turned, +in what seemed a happy dream, to the familiar touch of a man’s rough +tweed coat on her face, stretching her arms out in sleep at the happy +thought; in her dream nestling close to the dear shoulder, till +suddenly a nightmare terror shook her. She tried to scream and could +not; woke for an instant to think she heard a footstep stealing away, +and, not half-awake, was asleep again almost before she realized her +thought. + +“Where can Ismay be?” Mrs. Trelane wondered at lunch. + +Cristiane shook her head with guileless innocence. + +Wray said carelessly that he did not know, but his face flushed a +little. + +Mrs. Trelane finished her lunch and went to find out. Half-way upstairs +she looked down; there was Ismay on her comfortably padded sofa, +stretching herself awake. + +“Well, of all the peculiar people! I never saw any one stretch so like +a cat. Ismay,” she said aloud, “what on earth are you doing there?” + +“I was tired--I think. Mother, come here a minute.” + +The unusual tone in her voice astounded the listener; she came +down-stairs hastily. + +“Tired! From what? And why did you go to sleep here? I couldn’t find +you anywhere, and I was terrified Cristiane might think something +about you and that horrid Cylmer. Tell me, did she mean anything this +morning?” sharply, seating herself on the end of the sofa. + +“Don’t know, and don’t care,” said the girl sleepily. “Of course not. +How could she? It was to pay me for saying Marcus was horrid.” + +“You said that to her!” + +“Oh, don’t be agitated. She didn’t believe me,” said Ismay flippantly. +“Mother, I want to speak to you. No, don’t move! It’s safer here than +anywhere. We can hear any one coming a long way off on this hard oak +floor. I want you to tell me--think hard, mother, I mean it--if you +don’t know of any one that might have been in Abbotsford’s room that +day?” + +“What makes you think of that now?” + +“I’m always thinking of it,” her hand to her head that felt so oddly +heavy. “I’m frightened.” + +“What of? I didn’t do it,” almost absently. “Think of some one, you +say. You little fool, do you suppose I have not tried and tried? There +was no one who had anything against Abbotsford. I know you don’t +believe me; I know you think I did it.” + +“You might as well have if we can’t find out who did,” Ismay said +wearily. “Look here, where was Marcus that day?” + +“Marcus!” She hushed the cry with a sudden remembrance of those two in +the dining-room; but she went on with unexpected freedom, recollecting +they were going out, were gone by now. + +“Oh, you needn’t think of him!” she said scornfully. “He was across the +way, waiting to see Florrie Bernstein, the dancer. She was out, and to +amuse himself the devil put it in his head to stare out the window. He +never had anything to do with the matter.” + +The strangely found beetle was on the girl’s lips, but the sleep was +off her brain now, and she dared not trust her secret to her mother’s +careless keeping. + +“I wish he had done it. I should like him to be hanged,” she muttered. + +“He’s too clever,” bitterly, “to do anything but bully women.” + +“Where is he now?” with late caution. + +“He and Cristiane have gone out skating,” she said carelessly, for +Marcus had assured her the night before that the time was not ripe yet +for any action. “They’re all right, you little idiot. There’s no need +for you to look like that.” + +Wild, dazed, swaying, Ismay was on her feet. All right, with that black +place in the ice, with that purpose in Wray’s mind! + +“Get out of my way! Move!” she cried. “Get me some water, brandy, +anything! I can’t stand.” + +Mrs. Trelane was in the dining-room and back almost before she knew at +the authority in the sharply breathed words. + +“What’s the matter? Are you going to be ill?” she cried. + +Ismay snatched the brandy and water. + +“Ill? No! If I am we’re ruined.” With quick, swaying steps she passed +her mother, letting the empty glass fall in shivers to the floor. + +“Then you’re crazy!” cried the mother. She stared stupidly at the +splinters, and by the time she had shrugged her shoulders amazedly +Ismay was gone. + +Out the great door, hatless, into the winter air, that struck cold on +her forehead and drove away the deadly faintness on her. Down the broad +avenue toward the lake, staggering at first. Then, as her strength +revived, running like young Diana, the beat of her flying feet only a +little heavier than usual as she tore along. + +Marcus and Cristiane--the wolf and the lamb! That black place in the +ice where the current came from a spring. And this awful stiffness that +cramped her like a vise as she ran. + +Could she ever get there? She could see the lake now as she mounted +the last rise in the avenue. And there was Marcus on the safe ice, and +Cristiane? On the other side of the black streak Cristiane was sliding, +without skates, drawing every minute nearer to it. Ismay knew now what +was in his brain. + +All alone out there, there was no one to hear him dare her to cross it, +and that was what he was doing. And Cristiane was heavy; it would never +bear her. To slip into that running water meant death. The thought +seemed to paralyze the girl who looked on. + +Helpless, rigid, great drops on her forehead for all the cold, she +stood in full view of Cristiane, who waved her hand at her; in full +view of some one else, long before his time at that tryst behind the +cedars, as Cristiane, step by step, drew closer to that thin film of +ice. + +With one piercing, ringing shriek, one bound, Ismay was running again, +like an arrow from a bow. Running with skirts drawn up, elbows down, +steady and fast as a man who must win a race. She dared not think what +it meant if she could not reach Cristiane before she was on that black +mockery of ice. + +No wonder her ringing scream sounded so wild and dreadful in the clear +air; no wonder she ran with the blood beating in her eyes and forehead, +the sharp air rasping in her agonized lungs. + +She shrieked again. No matter what Marcus thought if only she could +keep Cristiane off that ice. + +At that shrill cry Cristiane turned and went on faster. Ismay should +not frighten her before Marcus Wray, who had laughed and forbidden her +to dare the crossing, as if she were a town-bred baby. + +Miles Cylmer, a long way off behind his cedars, shouted in answer and +ran down the long shore, too late to stop what he saw. Cristiane, +laughing, defiant, on the edge of the black ice, a few rods behind her, +bareheaded, slim, nearly exhausted, Ismay running to cut her off. + +Wray had turned at the man’s voice and cried aloud: + +“Go back! Don’t try it.” But it was no accident that made him fall flat +as he spoke. + +Cylmer ran as he, too, had never run before, for the black ice had +crashed from under Cristiane’s feet. She went through like a stone as +she stepped on it. + +Yet the next second he saw her white hand flung up from the black ice, +the blacker water; saw Ismay, flung flat on the sound ice, stretch out +till she caught the hand in hers; did not see that Cristiane’s other +hand had clutched her as with a vise, nor that Ismay was completely +done and exhausted. + +And Cristiane le Marchant was a well-grown, heavy girl, Ismay slight +and dainty. Then inch by inch the sound ice cracked around them, as +Cristiane, in her frantic struggling, drew Ismay nearer and nearer +death. As Cylmer reached her it broke under her. But it was Mrs. +Trelane who screamed as she ran frantically down from the avenue, where +she had followed Ismay from pure wonder at the girl’s actions. + +“He told me he wouldn’t do it! Oh, I might have known,” she cried +helplessly, as she ran. She dropped on her knees with a great sob as +she reached the lakeshore, and hid her eyes in terror. + +On the grass beside Cristiane in her priceless, soaked furs, lay Ismay +in her thin house-gown. There was a crimson stain oozing from her set +and speechless mouth, and she was deadly still, the blood thick in that +clay-cold body that had been so quick and warm but now. + +For once Mrs. Trelane was careless of appearances. + +“What have you done?” she shrieked at Wray. “What----” But his hand was +on her shoulder. + +“Tried to save Ismay,” he said shortly, as was true, for he had done +his best to help Cylmer, only to be savagely thrust out of the way. + +“This gentleman had Miss le Marchant out of the water before I was +on my feet. I fell,” with rage in his tone because his plans had +miscarried, because it was Cristiane who could sit up and speak, not +Ismay. + +“Mr. Wray told me not to try,” Cristiane said, shivering. “And I would. +I’m cold. Take me home.” + +Cylmer looked at her. + +“Have you no thought for Miss Trelane, who tried to save you?” he said +sternly. + +Cristiane went off into wild hysterics. + +“She didn’t try to save me,” she gasped; “she stood on the hill and +watched me. I saw her. She could have got here long ago, but she hates +me. Oh, I know. Just because you love me.” Cylmer made one quick stride +to her. + +“Be silent. Have you no sense; no decency?” His face absolutely white, +he pointed to where Ismay lay on the grass. “You abuse her when for +all you know she may have died for you. Take Mrs. Trelane’s arm and go +home. I am ashamed that you are your father’s daughter.” + +Wray had not heard her. After he had frightened Mrs. Trelane to silence +with that cruel grasp of her shoulder he had run with all his speed to +the stables to send a man for a doctor. + +He was more savage than he had ever been in his life at his morning’s +work. No one knew as he did why Ismay had not been able to withstand +the shock of that icy water. And the heiress was to go scot-free! He +ground his teeth as he hurried. + +Never! Dead or alive, Ismay should not save her. But if he could do it, +there should be life kept in that sweet body of hers yet, for, in his +way, the man loved her. + +Cristiane, the icy water dripping from her, rose and looked at Cylmer +with chattering teeth. + +“She hates me, and she is a liar and a thief. Look what I found this +morning.” Her voice low and spiteful, never reached Mrs. Trelane, as +she hung over Ismay. + +She stuffed a little card, dirty and crumbled, into his hand, but +though he took it, it was without knowledge or care of what she said. + +“Go!” he repeated angrily. “Don’t you see you must get off your wet +clothes?” + +But without seeing what she did he had stooped and lifted in his arms +the girl who was to have been flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. + +An old, old cry was on his lips as he lifted his ice-cold, ghastly +burden: + +“Would that I had died for thee, I and none other!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +“HER MOTHER’S CHILD!” + + +Cylmer, waiting by the hall fire, his wet clothes steaming, thought the +doctor would never come down-stairs. + +To Wray he gave no thought; it never occurred to him that that astute +person was keeping out of the way, for fear of comments of his idiocy +in having taken Cristiane on ice he knew nothing about. And Mrs. +Trelane was with Ismay; Cristiane put to bed crying with temper and +fright. The empty feeling of the house drove Cylmer wild. He was more +glad to see the little country doctor than he had ever been at anything +in his life. + +“Miss Trelane!” he said bluntly. “Is she----” The words stuck in his +throat. + +“She’ll do now, I think,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “But it’s +a peculiar case. It was not that she was in danger of death from +drowning, but there seemed to have been something in the shock. I don’t +know”--more briskly--“but she will do well now. She looks frail, but +her vitality is tremendous. But, my dear man, you must go home at once +unless you wish to die of pneumonia. Come with me in the brougham. You +can come back again later on. There’s no sense in shivering to death +here when you can’t see either of the victims.” + +He carried Cylmer off, and deposited him, rolled in a fur rug, at his +own door. And not till he was being stripped of his soaked clothes by +his fussy servant did Miles discover that he held something in his +hand. It was the card Cristiane had given him, the penciled words only +a blur now. + +“Does she mean she never got it? Is that why she called Ismay a +liar and a thief for the carelessness of some servant?” he thought +contemptuously. “I must tell the lady a few plain truths, I fancy. +I’d tell her everything this very night if I could get Ismay to +consent. But, of course, she won’t be up. I sha’n’t see either of them, +probably. If I do Miss Cristiane shall retire in tears,” with a grim +smile. + +In spite of what the doctor had said, Mr. Cylmer only made a pretense +of eating his dinner. + +He drove over to Marchant’s Hold without so much as waiting for his +coffee. Even Mrs. Trelane, who hated him, would be civil to him +to-night, since but for him Ismay would be lying dead. + +He went straight into the drawing-room, prepared to meet Mrs. Trelane +only. But she was not there. He paused, and saw on a distant sofa +Cristiane, her head bowed on her hands. + +“Cristiane,” his heart had sickened at her attitude, “what’s the +matter? She’s not--not dead?” + +“She? Do you mean Ismay?” She lifted her lovely eyes, drowned in tears. +“Not she. Why, Miles? Do you care--so much?” + +“Never mind what I do. If she is all right why are you crying?” sternly. + +“Because she’s made me be so horrid to you!” + +“You needn’t cry on my account,” he said, looking down at her, “I can +assure you. And how do you mean she had made you horrid to me?” + +“Because that card I gave you--I never got it. I thought you had never +come near me, and so I hated you.” + +“Never got it! But you gave it to me.” + +“Ismay pulled it out of her pocket this morning with her handkerchief, +and I picked it up. Oh, Miles!” her downcast face sweet, imploring, +“can you ever forgive me?” + +“Forgive you?”--impatiently. “I don’t know what you’re driving at! You +don’t mean you think Ismay kept it from you on purpose? Was that why +you dared to call her a thief?” + +His tone maddened her. She sat up and looked at him, sorrowfully, with +pained surprise. + +“Miles, you don’t care for her?” she whispered. + +“Why do you speak of her like that? She saved your life”--coldly. + +“She didn’t. It was you”--slowly. “I tell you she saw what I was doing +and stood waiting. She never ran till she saw you, and knew she must. +She would rather I was dead; she hates me.” + +“Cristiane, are you out of your senses?” He shook her roughly by the +shoulder. “Your ingratitude I cannot help; your abuse of her I will not +bear. As for loving her, I love her with all my heart. I’d marry her +to-morrow if she would have me.” + +And this was the Miles she had thought of as miserable with his love +that she would have none of! She was all passion in the frank brutality +with which she turned on him. + +“She can’t do that; she daren’t! She’s playing a double game with you. +She’s a bad, wicked girl”--her voice rising angrily. “I saw her this +very day lying with her head on Mr. Wray’s shoulder. She was pretending +to be asleep, and she stretched out her arms and put them about his +neck, and----” + +“Look here, Cristiane,” Miles broke in angrily, frantically. “You can +shut up! If it is true I don’t want to hear it, but if it’s a lie, +you’ll have to pay for every word of it.” + +“Miles,” she said slowly, “it’s every word of it true. I saw her. I +was on the stairs and she was lying on the sofa in the hall. I saw +him come and kneel beside her. She’s a horrid, horrid girl--I’m so +miserable”--with sudden choking tears. “I wish I hadn’t told you. +But I know you were with her often lately. I couldn’t let you go on +without telling you.” + +“Then allow me to tell you your conscientious scruples do you no +credit,” he said stoutly. Yet he did not see in his pain that she had +changed her tactics utterly, even while he had been talking to her. It +was all too much of a piece with that fatal cry of Mark, that senseless +terror of having her engagement to him an open thing. Ismay, his Ismay, +untrue! The solid ground had been cut away under his feet, yet he was +stubbornly faithful. He would not believe this spoiled child, who was +not even grateful to the girl who had nearly died to save her. + +“You don’t believe me? Oh, Miles, what can I do?” Cristiane moaned. She +hid her angry, tearless eyes that he might think she cried. + +“I wouldn’t believe an angel from heaven against Ismay!” he said +stoutly. + +But he lied, and he knew it. + +As for the note Cristiane implied Ismay had kept back, he never gave +it a thought. Cristiane and her feelings were nothing to him now. But +Ismay and that man from London were another story. + +“Don’t dare to say she did not try to save you,” he said to drown his +thoughts. “I was there. I did not see your danger, no more did she.” + +“And yet--you saved me,” she said quietly, and before he knew it she +had kissed his strong hand softly. He drew it away as if her lips had +stung. + +“I saved you as I would have saved a drowning dog,” he said, his voice +ominously level. “Now you know. I care nothing for you. My love for you +was only play. I know it now.” + +“Miles, don’t,” she gasped; “you kill me. But I can do you one service, +and I will. I--I love you now. I will take you to Ismay.” + +“You can’t. She’s in bed.” + +“She’s up in her sitting-room;” and he could not see the spite in her +face. + +Marveling at her strange changes, Cylmer followed her, his heart +beating uncomfortably. But to see Ismay, to have in one word all +his doubts destroyed--for that he would have followed anywhere +unquestioning. + +“Mrs. Trelane?” he said doubtingly, as they mounted the stairs. + +“Is in the library. Besides, what matters?”--dully. “You have the +right. You mean to marry her.” + +She opened Ismay’s door softly--too softly--and parted the curtains. + +“Look,” she whispered in his ear, “there is the girl you love. Now, who +is right, you or I?” + +Cylmer gave one glance; then, sick, staggered, broken, he turned away. + +In a great chair Ismay sat; at her feet was Marcus Wray, holding her +hand, talking eagerly, very low. On the girl’s face was no sign of that +loathing she had professed, only a beseeching, doubtful look of dread +and hope. + +“Come away,” whispered Cristiane, and he obeyed her, dazed and +stumbling. + +Ismay, whom he would have sworn was true, whom he had loved as he had +never thought to love, Ismay was her mother’s child! + +His face was hard as iron and as relentless as he stopped in the hall. + +Cristiane shrank away from him like a child who fears a blow. + +“Don’t look like that. I didn’t know,” she lied breathlessly. “But, you +see, I told the truth.” + +“Curse the truth, and you,” he said between his teeth. “Get out of my +way.” + +She could not hear what he said, but she turned away again, crying +pitifully. + +“I couldn’t let you love her and not know. Don’t be so hard to me.” + +With an effort that wrenched his very soul, the man mastered himself. + +“All right, child. I know you meant to be straight. But run away to +bed. I can’t talk.” + +Humiliated to the last drop of his blood, he stood in the hall alone, +opposite the half-opened door of the library. + +Cristiane had spoken the truth again; Mrs. Trelane was there. And the +very spirit of evil and recklessness had prompted her to put on that +very white gown in which she had been photographed for Lord Abbotsford. +Ismay was not there to stop her; she had explained to Cristiane that +her black evening gown was torn; and now she stood, ignorant of any +stranger’s eyes, before the glass over the fireplace in the very +attitude of the photograph. + +Her round, languorous throat; her arms, lovely still; the very turn of +her head, Miles Cylmer--saw--and remembered. + +The mysterious woman of the photograph stood before him. + +No wonder Ismay had been interested in Abbotsford’s death; no wonder +she had paled when he brought out that broken trinket. She had it +still, and probably she and her mother had laughed together at +the cleverness with which she had wiled it from him. He had been +fooled--fooled by a pair of green eyes, a mouth all love, a smile all +witching. + +Mechanically, as a man in a dream, he put on his coat and hat and got +into his dog-cart that was waiting at the door. Cristiane was right. +Ismay Trelane was bad to the core. + +But the man could not see the road for the bitterness of his heart as +he drove home through the dark. + +Cristiane, in spite of her fright at his anger, smiled, well pleased, +as she went up-stairs to bed. + +She had really seen Marcus Wray kiss Ismay; she had only kept back that +the girl’s subtle instinct, even in her sleep, had made her moan and +turn away from him, so that he crept away lest she should awake. She +was cunning enough not to tell Wray what she had seen, but the sudden +enlightenment had made her furious. Was this girl to come here and take +every man she saw? Were her own good looks, her fortune, as nothing +compared with the strange beauty of the other? Not while Cristiane le +Marchant could stop it. + +Loved, caressed, guided in her every footstep by her dead father, +the girl was utterly spoiled. Without that firm and loving hand she +steered her own bark wildly, caring nothing for others, so that her own +vanity was satisfied. And Miles Cylmer that night had struck at the +self-conceit that was her most vulnerable part. + +“He’s going to hate her now,” she thought, with gleeful conviction. +“Then he’ll come back to me, and I’ll refuse him again. Oh, how I will +refuse him! And I’ll keep Mr. Wray here and make Miles wild.” + +She sank to sleep in a blissful reverie of Ismay driven out, Miles +sighing in vain, and she herself marrying a duke. She would wear white +satin and look very proud and cold. It would be delightful. And that +death had to-day only missed her by a hair’s breadth, and to-morrow +might strike again, she never thought. Nor that the girl she had +betrayed this very night was the only soul on earth who could save her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +TRUTH THAT LIED! + + +It was all so black, so terribly obvious as he looked at it. + +Cylmer thought long that night, in a weary circle that led back to the +same horror. The original of that photograph had been Mrs. Trelane, and +if Abbotsford’s death lay at her door, Ismay had known it. That little +cry of hers came back to him. + +“I never saw it before.” + +A lie and a foolish one, that looking back was damning. + +And Wray--she could deceive him for a brute like that? + +And then there rushed over him the awful thought of the disgrace to +come; the wheels that he had set in motion that were even now out of +his power to stop. Even in his disenchantment, with that raging pain +at his heart that she was false who seemed so true, he was glad that +that one clue, that one fatal bit of evidence, the blue-green beetle, +was in her hands. The detectives would never see it again; Mrs. Trelane +warned in time, would destroy it and the bracelet he was certain it had +belonged to--and Ismay. + +“Ismay can be consoled by Mark.” Yet at the thought his forehead was +wet. He would have given his soul not to have seen her to-night, to +have gone on believing in her; as he would never believe in any one +again. + +And yet it had all been so simple; if fate had not played into the +spiteful hands of Cristiane le Marchant, would have been another link +to bind him to the girl who for his sake was fighting with the world +against her. + +At eight o’clock Ismay had waked from a long sleep; waked weary and +languid in body, but with her brain more quick and clear than it had +been for two days. She was alone, and she lay for a little, thinking, +remembering. + +What had made her so drowsy, so strange all that day? Had Wray, to keep +her out of the way, given her anything? + +“There was only breakfast, he couldn’t!” she reflected. “We all had +the same, even my coffee Thomas poured out at the sideboard. Besides, +he doesn’t suspect me at all, thanks to Thomas’ version of my midnight +promenades.” She smiled to herself. + +Had not Thomas met her face to face one night, and had not Jessie +told her in deepest secrecy of how the lady had walked, with the +very blood-stain that was the mark of her crimes on her breast! That +blood-stain she had made in sewing her ghost’s gown, with fingers that +were torn by Cylmer’s roses. + +“Jessie.” Conviction flashed over her at the woman’s name. + +Jessie had put her early tea down outside the door this morning. Ismay +was sleepy and too lazy to get up and let the woman in. + +“I said to leave it, and I heard her go away,” she thought. “When I +took it in it was cold, and I thought it wasn’t nice, but I drank it. +He had plenty of time to put anything in it. If he passed and saw it +there he would not hesitate one second. Even if he did not suspect me +he may have been determined I should have to stay at home. One more +score against him.” + +Her anger lent her strength. She got out of bed and clothed herself +in a warm dressing-gown, utterly heedless of the doctor’s orders. +Something that was not herself made her think of the scarab and Marcus +Wray. Could she have in her very hands the destruction of her enemy, +and not know it? + +She took it out of its hiding-place, and saw the flash of Cylmer’s +ring, where it lay beside it. + +When Marcus Wray was routed, she could put it on--she turned away that +she might not see it, but the sight of it had deepened her hatred of +the man who stood between her and happiness, whom, for her mother’s +sake, she dared not defy. + +A step outside startled her. She had just time to throw the scarab into +the drawer and lock it, when her mother was in the room. + +Her mother in white, in that very gown she should have burned, long ago! + +“Why are you up? You’ll kill yourself!” Mrs. Trelane said sharply. + +“I’m all right. I couldn’t stay in bed. Mother, in Heaven’s name, why +have you got on that?” she pointed like an accusing judge at the tawdry +white dress. + +“Because I was sick of looking like a fright in black. It shows out +every line in my face. And there’s no one here but Marcus.” + +“Who is your worst enemy,” helplessly. “And it isn’t decent, with Sir +Gaspard not dead a month.” + +“Oh, bother! I told Cristiane my black one was torn,” lightly. “But +Ismay, are you really quite well? I was terrified about you this +morning!” + +“Terrified!” Ismay threw back her head with her old laugh of mockery. +She knew quite well the depth of that terror. A horrible sight, the awe +of death that lies in all of us; but if death had been there her mother +would have dried her tears as useless, aging things; forgotten her +daughter as soon as the earth had closed over her. + +“If you are going to be so brutal I shall go away,” Mrs. Trelane said +angrily. “If you have no feelings you might give me credit for some.” + +“Don’t go.” Ismay caught her dress. “Come into the sitting-room. Tell +me about this morning--what happened, who carried me home?” + +“Mr. Cylmer. Tell me, Ismay,” with quiet curiosity, “how well do you +know him? He looked like death when he carried you. And how did he +happen to be there?” + +“He just, happened, I suppose,” provokingly. + +“And I don’t suppose I was an engaging sight. What did Cristiane do?” + +“Had hysterics, I think. I wasn’t listening. I thought you were dead; +so did Marcus.” + +“You didn’t let him touch me? + +“He went straight off for the doctor. It was that man Cylmer who got +you out of the water.” + +“That man Cylmer!” The girl flushed with pride and joy. How she would +thank him when she saw him, with the strong arm that had saved her +close about her shoulders. + +“Marcus wants to see you. That’s why I came up,” Mrs. Trelane remarked. +“Do be civil to him, Ismay, he tried to help you.” + +“Me? yes?” enigmatically, and her mother shivered with a suspicion of +the girl’s knowledge, that died on the instant at her placid face. + +“See me?” Ismay amended. “Very well, send him up. No, don’t stay! I’ll +be civil, you needn’t worry.” + +Her eyes alert, her cheek feverish, she watched him come in. + +“What do you want?” she inquired calmly, as he hesitated on the +threshold. + +“To see for myself that you’re all right,” his cold sneering manner all +gone. “Ought you to be up? But you look quite well, quite yourself.” + +“I am quite myself. What made you think I shouldn’t be?” she said dryly. + +“The shock, the wetting,” he hesitated. + +“Neither the shock nor the wetting have affected me,” she assured him. + +Could she suspect anything about that tea? he gave her a searching +glance with narrowed eyes. But her face was as openly hostile as usual, +with no underlying doubt. + +“If you’re going to stay, sit down,” she yawned laughingly. “You make +me nervous fidgeting there by the door.” + +He drew a chair near to her sofa, and she let her eyes close sleepily. +Through their dark fringes they looked him all over searchingly. +Evening clothes, a shirt and collar as immaculate as usual, a neat +black tie, two pearl studs, rather flawed and too large. So he had a +taste for jewels. + +His hands, long, deceitful, cruel, lay on his knees. On one of them was +a diamond ring, too big for a man, too sparkling. + +“His cuffs!” she thought, with inspiration. But they were hidden under +his black coat-sleeve. One day she had laughed at Cylmer’s plain +mother-of-pearl cuff-studs, and he had said that there was nothing a +man was so wedded to as a peculiar kind of cuff-stud. + +“If he wears links, he always wears links, generally of the same +pattern. If he wears studs, he never changes the make.” + +The blood beat hard in her temples. That bluey-green Egyptian beetle +could well have been half of a cuff-link, florid, expensive, odd, as +were those shirt-studs of pearls and greenish gold. + +“Why are you so thoughtful, Ismay? Why will you go on hating me?” Wray +asked slowly. “Don’t you know it’s no use?” + +There was a biting answer on her tongue, but she kept it back. She +must say something--anything--that would make him hold out his hand to +her with a sharp, hasty gesture that would clear his shirt-cuff, links +upward, from his sleeve. + +“And if I did not hate you, what would you do for me?” she moved her +hand toward him as if by accident. + +The next instant he had seized it, was holding it in a grasp that was +loathsomely hot and strong. Words she did not listen to poured in a low +whisper from his lips. Intent, her face alight with eagerness, she was +gazing at his wrist, moving her hand till his lay palm upward under +hers. + +But if she expected to see the scarabs, of which she had one, she was +wrong. And yet her heart leaped. For he did wear links, not studs, and +they were showy and costly. Ovals of pink coral set round with seed +pearls. + +As she gazed, his low voice in her ears killed the sound as Cristiane +parted the curtain. Wray, with his back to the door and off his guard, +saw nothing, and Cylmer, cut to the heart, had seen enough. + +If Cylmer had been one moment later he would have seen her snatch her +hand away; wipe it with insolent care on her handkerchief; laugh, with +utter scorn in Marcus Wray’s furious face, as, her aim attained, she +spoke out: + +“You might give me the whole earth, and I should hate you,” she cried +out with insane bravery. “I hate death, but I would die before I +married a man like you!” + +Dazed, taken aback, he looked at her. + +“You can go,” she said, smiling like Circe, treacherous and merciless; +“I’m done with you.” + +In the long moment’s pause a door shut somewhere, and she could not +know it was Miles, going away. And Wray did not hear it. His hands +trembled, his face full of evil, he looked down at her insolent beauty. + +“But I am not done with you,” he said very low. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +“MY NAME IS YESTERDAY.” + + +Ismay was gay as any lark that next morning. Her path, that had been so +hard to tread, seemed sure and easy now; her course of action plain. +When Miles came, as of course he would come to see how she was, she +would tell him all--everything. With those showy cuff-links of Marcus +Wray’s in her remembrance, that broken jewel in her keeping, that had +never been her mother’s, she had something to go on. Miles should know +all; she would keep nothing back, and then they two, together, should +bring guilt home to Marcus Wray. + +For, with the certainty of a person whose intuitions are never wrong, +she was sure that it was he who had poisoned Abbotsford, he who had +managed so cleverly that if anything were discovered, it was Mrs. +Trelane who should bear the whole brunt. + +But the morning passed, and no Miles. The waiting, the hope deferred, +made her pale. And there was too much at stake--she could not afford to +wait. She slipped out to the stable and sent a groom with a note. + + “Please come to the stile at four. I’m quite well to-day, and I must + see you. I have something to tell you. + + “ISMAY.” + +Something to tell him! Cylmer’s face hardened as he read. He heard +beforehand the smooth, plausible story she would have made ready when +Cristiane--as Cristiane was sure to do--had told her of the night +before. + +“I won’t go. I can’t see her,” he thought wretchedly, and yet his +longing was too much for him. He would see her once more--once more +feast his eyes on her fatal beauty that had weaned him from all simple +loves forever; he would tell her that he knew, and bid her save herself +and her mother, and go. + +“I will be there at four,” he wrote, without beginning or signature, +and Ismay as she read it only thought how careful he was to write +nothing that could matter if other hands opened his note. + +“He hates writing. He never even says he is glad I’m all right.” She +kissed the little note before she burned it, not thinking that never +again would Miles Cylmer write to Ismay Trelane. + +She evaded the others that afternoon with some trouble, so that she +was late at the stile. Miles was there before her, very tall, very +handsome in the gray light. For the day was thawing drearily. + +“Miles”--her voice rang out sweetly, joyfully, as he had heard it in +his dreams--“I’m here! I’m quite well. Aren’t you glad?” She stopped +abruptly as she reached his side, saw his face. “Miles, what’s the +matter?” An agony of terror such as all her hunted life had never known +made her dizzy as she looked. + +He could not answer. He was fighting with that worst pain on earth when +a man has learned to distrust and hate all that has been most dear and +sweet and true. + +“Are you sorry you saved me?” She tried hard for his old light mirth. +“Is that it?” + +Cylmer shivered. Truly he would rather she had died than that he should +have known this of her. + +“I don’t know,” he said under his mustache, never moving a step toward +her, his hands, that were wont to clasp hers so eagerly, lax at his +sides. + +“What’s the matter? Look at me,” she cried desperately. “Why are you +like this, when I’ve come all this way to tell you something that will +take all my courage to tell?” + +“Then you can spare your courage, for I know.” + +“Know! You can’t.” She was panting, wild. “What can you know that has +changed you so?” + +“I know that it was your mother’s whose photograph was in Abbotsford’s +room,” he said hoarsely. + +“I know why you fainted here in my arms when I talked of it. I know how +you and she have made a fool of me; how you have deceived me for Wray.” + +“Wray!” She stared aghast. What did he mean? + +“I saw you last night--with Wray.” + +And at the look on his face the girl’s heart died within her. + +“You saw me?” Ismay repeated. “Last night--with Marcus Wray?” + +“Last night,” he echoed, “with Marcus Wray. He was alone with you in +your sitting-room, holding your hand. And you, who say you hate him, +lay looking at him so intently that you never knew I was there.” + +“You were there!”--her eyes wide, dilated, were almost stupid as she +stared at him. “What brought you there?” + +“To see you! But as it was an inconvenient moment”--with a short, angry +laugh--“I did not intrude.” + +“Miles,” she cried, “I had a reason; I held his hand for a purpose.” + +“I do not doubt it; you always have, I should fancy,” he said bitterly. +“Had you the same purpose in the morning, when you let him kiss you in +the hall, where the whole house might see?” + +“Kiss me? He never kissed me.” Her lips, no longer scarlet, were +parted, her forehead suddenly livid. + +Kissed her, Marcus Wray? With a sudden dread she remembered she had +dreamed of Cylmer, felt the tweed of his coat under her cheek. + +“Miles! Miles!”--with a revulsion that was agony. “I was asleep. I +thought, I dreamed”--faltering--“it was you.” + +“You forget, he never kissed you”--disdainfully. “You say you slept. +Do you think I, who loved you, would take advantage of your sleep to +kiss you? But why talk of it”--with a quick, slighting motion of his +hand--“since it is true?” + +Yes, it was true. Just as holding his hand last night was true, and yet +hell was no falser. + +“Who told you?” she asked quietly, without denial or protest. + +“The person who saw you. And because I would not believe I went +up-stairs to see you, and I saw--but I did not come to talk of what you +know so thoroughly.” + +“Then why did you come?” For the first time her voice was unsteady. To +his informant, as to Wray’s kisses, she never gave a thought; any one +might have seen her as she slept. + +“I came to tell you that I knew it all, everything; that I see now that +from the first day you have been your mother’s daughter. Forgive my +rudeness; it is an easy way--of putting it.” + +“I don’t understand.” How cold it was growing, and how dark, she +thought irrelevantly. Why could he not finish and go? + +He pulled a card from his pocket. + +“Who kept this from Cristiane?” he said roughly. “Was it you?” + +“So you want to go back to your Cristiane?” For one second her eyes +flashed. + +“I don’t care if I never see her again”--impatiently. “Yesterday, God +forgive me, I would have let her die for you.” + +Yesterday! The utter change in his voice hurt. + +“Don’t you see it isn’t Cristiane who is in question? It’s what you +did, or did not. Tell me, did you keep that card?” + +“I kept it,” very evenly. “I loved you, and I was afraid of her.” + +“You loved me?” he laughed, unbelieving. “Why, you had only seen me +once!” The contemptible thought of his money, his position, crowded +into his brain and maddened him. “Oh, not me!” he ended in a tone that +was an insult. + +But she never noticed it. + +She sat down on the stile, as if she were tired. That stile where the +gate of heaven had been closed on her. + +“So you came about that note and Wray!” she said. “Well, I did both +things! What next?” + +It was Cylmer’s turn to wince. + +“This next,” he answered, and he could not meet her eyes, that once had +been so sweet, so serene. “It was for your sake, because I pitied you, +that I told nothing of all I knew about your mother. When you asked me, +I was silent. And all the time you knew that she was not only unfit to +have charge of an innocent girl, but was a murderess.” + +“I thought so. Yes.” + +“And then I loved you. And you used my love to find out what the +police were doing. But even your nerves could not keep you from making +mistakes. You fainted when I told you the police were on the murderer’s +track, and I was too blind to know you had excellent reason. And +because I was a fool I gave you that scarab, and I suppose you have +profited by my folly, and destroyed the others, though you had ‘never +seen it before!’” + +“Miles, she is my mother.” Yet there was no pleading in her voice. + +“And I thought I was your lover. But it seems I was mistaken. There is +Wray. I will leave the field to him.” + +For the first time her temper rose. + +“And then you will tell what you know of my mother--and me--to the +police, and the countryside?” she said scathingly. To hear her cut +Cylmer to the quick. + +“That is what I will not do. To my shame, I will help you both to go. +I will let my friend lie unavenged. I will balk the investigation--if +I can, and for my shame I shall know I am a party to a crime. This is +what I came to tell you. It is not safe to stay here a day. You have +that scarab, but by this time a description of it is with all the +police in England, and any day they may be on you. If they ask me again +on my oath if I can identify that photograph, what can I answer? For I +saw your mother in that very attitude, that very dress, admiring her +reflection in a mirror last night. If you want money I will give it to +you; but make an excuse to Cristiane, and get your mother away. Let me +never see her again, that I may forget her.” + +“And me? You would forget me?” her voice oddly flat and lifeless. + +“Forget you? I would give my soul if I could,” simply. But there was +nothing in his bearing to comfort her. + +“You don’t love me--now?” She persisted. + +“No, not now. It will hurt you very little, as you have Wray.” There +was no taunt in his voice, only misery and conviction. + +She sat, dumb and quivering. + +“If you ever loved me, go!” he cried. “Can’t you see that any hour you +may be tracked?” + +Like lightning she was on her feet, facing him. Her eyes were splendid +in the dusk, her beauty appalling as she spoke. + +“If I ever loved you!” she cried. “I, who loved you as a nun adores +the cross; who was wicked, heartless, altogether evil, till you made me +see that truth and goodness were things to live and die for! It was for +your sake I fought for my mother. I hated her till I knew you; now I +pity her with all my heart. + +“Miles, if you listen now, I can tell you what would make even you +pitiful. I can show you what a lying truth yesterday was--only hear me.” + +“I would not believe you,” he cried wretchedly. “I should go home and +know it was only another act in the play; that you----” + +With a gesture she stopped him; she had raised both her hands with a +movement that was magnificent. She spoke solemnly, as a priest who +calls down the wrath of God. + +“Then it is on your head,” she said, and he could but just hear her. +“The sin, the crime, all that will come if you send me away. If I go +from you it will be to become all you think me; neither truth nor honor +nor pity will ever spring in me again. You will hear of me, and know +that it was you who made me that thing that I shall be; the memory of +it shall haunt you in life; it will cry out against you at the judgment +day. + +“As for my mother”--superb, powerful, she held him with her eyes--“I +will bring that crime home--but not to my mother. I would have told +you all the truth to-day, but you sealed my lips. I could tell you of +a thing so wicked that even I could not see it done--but why should I +warn you, when you think I am a liar?” + +“My God, Ismay! What are you saying?” A thought so awful in his mind +that he caught her by the arm till her flesh was bruised. + +“Let me go!” She wrenched herself free. “God--I believed in no God +till I knew you. Now, I believe, and as He hears me, I swear the day +will come when for this day’s work you could kill yourself. No, don’t +answer; don’t speak!” contemptuously. “By and by you will know that +once I was true, and by then I shall be a thing to shudder at, with +death on my hands----” Her voice broke wildly. “But the guilt of it +will be on you. I wash my hands of it. Take your ring. I was never fit +to wear it. But when I am dead and in hell, you can remember that you +put me there.” + +“Tell me what you mean!” authoritatively. + +“I came to tell you--and you would not hear me. Now it is too late.” +All her excitement was gone, her words were as quick and irrevocable as +Fate. + +“Ismay, love!” the man fairly groaned. “Do you mean me to believe all +you’ve been saying? Wait a minute; speak to me; forget everything but +that I loved you and you drove me mad!” + +“Loved me? A thief, a liar, the daughter of a murderess, whose name is +a byword!” Her voice rang out clear and wicked. + +“Oh, no, Mr. Cylmer! You did not love me. You thought you loved me +yesterday. Farewell!” + +His ring lay unheeded on the ground between them, as he sprang to stop +her. But she was quick and elusive as a shadow. Cylmer, his courage +gone, his heart faint within him, leaned on the stile, as weak as a +woman. + +In all her words there had been only one meaning to him. It was she +who had done it, and not her mother. And it was he who had stirred the +lagging investigation to fresh life. + +Girl, sorceress, woman! Whatever she was, she had been a child in his +hands till to-day. And it was he who had set the noose about her neck! + +“Ismay!” he sobbed once sharply, as a man does, from his very heart’s +core. + +Her blood would be on his head, and he loved her still. And yet she had +been right. Not all she could have said or sworn would have blotted out +those facts that, true or false, stood out so blackly against her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +A NIGHT’S WORK. + + +White, tense, her nerves like an overstrung bow that goes near to +breaking, Ismay ran through the dark to Marchant’s Hold. And as she +entered the great hall door any pity that might have lingered in her +breast was killed. + +Cristiane stood by the fire, dressed for dinner, her bare arms very +fair against her black dress. + +“What! alone, and so late. Wouldn’t he even see you home to-night?” she +laughed, for Ismay’s face was not hard to read. + +“He? Who do you mean?” She did not look a thing to play with as she +stopped short before the girl who mocked her. + +“Miles, of course. Wasn’t he nice to you, Ismay? Or did that card I +never got stick in his throat?” + +That card! So when she lost it, Cristiane had found it. It was she who +had given it to Cylmer. She who had told everything. + +“You did it. You!” She could hardly speak. + +“Yes, it was I,” cheerfully. “You see, I am not such a baby, after all. +But, cheer up. He will come back to-morrow. He won’t mind little things +like those.” + +“You took him to my door last night.” But it was not a question, only a +statement. + +“I withdrew him at once, promptly, when I saw it was a mistake,” calmly. + +And this was the girl whom only yesterday she had nearly died to save! +Well, that was over. She could die now, as she pleased. No more would +an arm be stretched out to protect her. Never again would a mock ghost +play the spy on Marcus Wray. + +Her eyes were very steady, very evil, as she looked up. + +“I took that card, and I am very sorry I did,” she answered quietly. +“He would have loved me without it. You can think of that for your +pains.” + +Cristiane was suddenly afraid, but she gave a last fling. + +“Did he love you very much to-day?” she asked involuntarily. + +Ismay’s face hardened like stone. + +“You are what people call good,” she said slowly; “and I was sorry for +you. I did my best for you--in a fashion. Stand still and let me look +at you--for I may never see you again.” + +Something in her eyes made Cristiane cold. + +“What do you mean?” she shrieked. “Are you going away?” She sprang +forward, and took Ismay’s hand, but the girl shook her off. + +“I am going to bed,” she said shortly. “Tell them not to disturb me. I +stole your note, Cristiane, but you are revenged. You have stolen from +me enough to make me go to bed without my dinner.” + +Lightly, pitilessly, she nodded as she turned away. Let Marcus do what +he liked, it was nothing to her that he should have one more sin on +his shoulders. For if ever a woman was mad with misery, it was Ismay +Trelane that night. + +Still in her outdoor dress she sat crouched on her bed, motionless as +a panther who waits to spring, death-driven, almost hopeless. In the +house the gong sounded for dinner; a servant came to the door, and was +sent petulantly away. Mrs. Trelane, all silks and rustle, knocked in +annoyance. + +“Aren’t you coming down?” she cried. + +“No. Please go away and leave me alone. I shall be all right in the +morning. I’m tired,” with a tearless sob. + +She was weary to the bone. The shock of yesterday had borne hard on her +vigorous young body; the shock of to-day had withered her very soul. +She was faint for want of food, but she could not break bread with +Cristiane or Marcus Wray, and yet she must eat, or this night’s work +would never be done. + +At a tap on her door she opened it, to see Jessie; Jessie, who honestly +loved her for many a kind word given when Cristiane had been cruelly +sharp with the faithful soul. + +“I brought some soup and wine, Miss Ismay,” she said. “Are you sick? +You’re that pale.” + +At the only kind word she had heard all day Ismay Trelane stooped and +kissed the honest, fresh cheek of the servant-woman. + +“No, I’m tired,” she said slowly. “Make them let me be till the +morning. Promise, Jessie.” + +“Will I get you to bed?” confused at the honor done her. “Will I fetch +Miss Cristiane?” + +“Don’t fetch any one, and I’ll lock my door now. I’m afraid of that +ghost.” + +“She don’t walk so early,” said the woman, with simple belief. “Good +night, Miss Ismay. I’ll not come in the morning till you ring.” + +Ismay laughed. + +“That’s a good soul,” she said. “Let me sleep--till I ring.” + +Jessie would scarcely have known her ten minutes later, as she stood in +front of her glass, putting on the old clothes some mood had made her +bring with her to Marchant’s Hold. + +Shabby, ugly, too short, the dress hung on her, the old-fashioned hat +set absurdly on her head. But there was color in her face from the soup +and wine, as she put into a safe hiding-place in her coat the scarab +that was all the clue she had. + +“Vulgar cuff-links are a very small thing to go on,” she reflected; +“but I will try, and in the meantime Cristiane and Miles can find out +what sort of a house this is without me. I don’t think they’ll have +long to wait, either.” + +She looked doubtfully at the few coins she had, as she put them into +her pocket. + +“If they’re not enough, looking at them won’t help,” she thought. “They +will get me there, and that’s all I care for. If I fail I am not likely +to need any. If I don’t fail”--she laughed--“some one else will pay my +fare for the last time to Marchant’s Hold.” + +She opened her door noiselessly and listened. There was only the +cheerful clink that came intermittently from the dining-room. There was +not a step or a sound on her floor. + +Without a click to betray her, she locked her door behind her, +pocketing the key. Her room was in darkness, and no one would know the +key was gone till late in the morning; when it did not matter if the +whole world knew. + +“Marcus may be certain I’ve gone to London, but it will take a cleverer +man than Marcus to find me,” she thought, as she went softly down the +stairs. The dining-room door was closed, the servants safe inside, the +front door swung noiselessly on its hinges as she slipped out unseen, +and closed it behind her without one telltale sound. + +In the dark she stood looking at the house, with curiously hard eyes. + +She was free. She was going to London with that scarab in her pocket, +to bring home his crime to the man who did it. Going alone, almost +penniless, to the cold winter streets, friendless, powerless, but +determined. And she left behind her, at the mercy of the merciless, +the girl whose only protection she had been. Left her with scarcely a +thought, without pity, with nothing in her hand but the one purpose--to +clear her mother before Cylmer and the world, to get out of Wray’s +power forever. + +A train would leave the station for London at half-past nine. At twelve +o’clock she would be there, with just one night’s start of Marcus +Wray. One night in which to ruin him. The girl’s lips tightened as she +hurried along her lonely road. + +“I may have more. They don’t know me at the station, and they will +never think it is a girl dressed like this whom he means. He will ask +for Miss Trelane, and I don’t look much like Miss Trelane.” + +She was right, for the man who sold her her ticket never glanced at +her. There had been an excursion to some races, and the station was +crowded. The shabbily dressed girl got into her third-class carriage +unnoticed. And once the train started and she was safe, she dropped +asleep, in utter weariness, never once stirring till they were in the +London station. + +She got out, and went quickly from the glaring lights and the crowd +into the comparative darkness of the streets. It was well they were +used to her locked door, otherwise they might have telegraphed and +stopped her. But once out of the station she was secure. + +Twelve o’clock, and the night before her, fresh and rested with her +sleep, but no tangible plan in her head, no notion of what she meant +to do. She trudged aimlessly through the streets. Once she passed a +lighted music-hall, and thought of her first meeting with Cylmer, but +with a curious distance, as if of a man long dead. + +Gradually, she left the thronged streets behind her, still unconscious +where she was going, till at last she stood in an open square, and knew +where she was. Round her were the lights of Onslow Square; at her very +feet the steps of Lord Abbotsford’s house. + +What had drawn her to that dreadful place, alone in the night? What had +guided her straying feet? She could see the windows of that little room +where the dreadful thing had been done. They were in darkness, like the +rest of the windows, but she knew them. + +Oh! why had she come here? Why was she wasting the priceless hours +like this? She turned to run, sick and trembling, but something black +on the door-step caught her eye. Ismay stooped down and peered at the +shapeless bundle. + +It was a very little boy, a bootblack, asleep on the homeless stones. +His box was clasped tight in his arms, and he sobbed in his sleep. + +The pity of the thing came home to the girl who had also nowhere to go, +no shelter from the freezing rain that was beginning to fall. She had +a shilling in her pocket besides what must pay for her breakfast, and +surely it was her guardian angel that prompted her to give it to the +boy. + +Very gently she touched his thin shoulder. + +He started up, awake at once, defiant, yet frightened, like a true +London waif. + +“Let me alone,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing. Who are you, anyway?” + +“I’m sleeping out, like you,” she answered. “But I’m grown up, and +you’re too little,” with a kind of reckless fellowship that reassured +the boy, who was ready for a run. + +“Ain’t you got nowhere to go, either? Oh!” He stared at her with the +uncanny wisdom of the streets. + +“Do you know anywhere to go if I give you a shilling?” she asked, more +for the comfort of talking than for anything else. + +“I can go home if I’ve a bob. I daresent without any money. Mother’d +lick me, and I’m sick. Will you give me a bob, honest? And no tracts, +nor nothing?” + +She nodded, ashamed by this time of her impulse. + +What had made her such a fool, when she might starve to-morrow for want +of that shilling? + +The boy stood up and stared resentfully at the dark house in front of +them. + +“It’s no good staying here. The man won’t let me in. He kicked me down +the steps last time I rung.” + +“Let you in!” She looked with wonder at the dirty, ragged mite. “What +do you want to go in for?” + +“I want to tell them something. It’s a shame,” with a man’s oath. “They +had Billy Cook in, and asked him things, and gave him half a crown, and +he didn’t know nothin’! And it was me that ought to had it. It was my +stand opposite, by that muddy crossing, and I took sick that day, and +stayed home ever since, and to-day when I come back Billy had my stand, +and what ought to ‘a’ been mine--and he didn’t know nothing, only +answered silly.” + +“Know nothing about what?” she echoed involuntarily, with no thought of +the answer that was to make her heart leap. + +“About the man that was in that house the day they said there was no +one in. I say, couldn’t you knock at the door, and I’d tell them. And +p’haps they’d give me ’arf a quid, and mother could get too dead drunk +to hit me?” + +“What man? Tell me, quick. I’ll get you more than half a sovereign.” + +She did not know how fierce her voice was till the boy started back +from her. + +“It ain’t no business of yours,” he cried. “I say, you ain’t got +nothing to do with the coppers, ’ave you?” he was on the defensive +instantly, all ready to flee. + +“No; no!” she said, so gently that he believed her. “But if you’ll tell +me, instead of them,” nodding at the big silent house, “I’ll get you +more money than you ever saw in your life.” + +“Girls like you don’t have none,” he retorted, with a distrustful +shiver. + +“I’ll get it for you in the morning. You needn’t let me out of your +sight all night, not till it’s in your hand, if you’ll tell me all you +know.” + +The boy gave a cheerful whirl. + +“Golly! I bet Billy Cook’ll be sick,” he exclaimed. “Do you mean it; +hope you may die?” + +“Hope I may die,” she asserted gravely, her marvelous eyes, that even +the child saw, bent on him. “But not here. Let’s walk on somewhere out +of the rain. I’m cold.” + +“I’m always cold,” returned the small bootblack. + +“It ain’t nothin’ when you’re used to it. But we’d better keep movin’; +cops comes round when you stands.” + +“Go on about the man,” she said shortly. “How do you know it was the +day of the murder?” + +“Ho! I’m not blind. Why, you never see such a how d’ye do in your +life. Cabs, and perlice, and reporters, and the cook screaming in the +area. I knowed right enough, but I never knowed they were looking for +no man till I come back to-day, and Billy Cook said so. He punched +me, too, because he’d got my stand, and I wanted it. And when I said +that ’arf-crown was mine, he punched me again. So I went to the house, +and the man told me to get out with my lies. They’d had the square +bootblack in a’ready. Billy Cook,” scornfully, “that never see the +square in his life till I got took bad with brownkeeters. He didn’t +see no man come out of the house, any day.” + +“Did you?” + +The great clock on the church-tower struck one. If the boy did not +hurry it would be too late to-night for what was in her mind. + +“I saw him go in about half after one. I saw a woman go in and out +twice, too; but that was after three. The last time there was a girl +with her, and they whispered, and while the woman was in a gentleman +went in and come out again quick. Him that raised the fuss afterward. +But my man he never come out till half-past four. I heard the clock, +when it was dusklike. He never see me, and he walked quick. And he was +crossing the street by my stand when he drops something out of his +hand, quick, right in the middle of the road, in the traffic. So I +jumped to get it before a bus went over it, and it was just a little +blue glass bottle that smelled funny.” + +“What did you do with it?” She was exultant, treading on air, the rain +falling unfelt on her thinly clad shoulders. And yet she dreaded that +at a question the boy’s story would fall to the ground. + +“Put it in my box. It’s there now. You bet I didn’t tell Billy Cook +anything about it to-day, when he was smelling round! I was sick when I +went home, and I never thought of it till to-day, and the man wouldn’t +let me speak.” + +“What did he look like, the man you saw come out of the house?” + +“He was big, and ugly, without no mustache. I’d know him if I see him. +Say, do you suppose there was stuff in that bottle to kill a man?” + +“I don’t know. Let me see it.” + +The boy yawned; but he took it from his box as they walked. In the +light of a street-lamp Ismay looked at it, shaking with excitement. An +ordinary chemist’s bottle, of blue glass, without a label. She pulled +out the cork, and a faint odor of bitter almonds met her nostrils. + +Prussic acid! And the bottle had held enough to kill ten men! + +In a wild fit of laughter that made the boy start, she shook from head +to foot. + +“Can’t you remember anything else about him?” she gasped, at last. + +“Dirty cuffs,” said the boy doubtfully. “I saw ’em in the lights when +he passed the shop at the corner. Oh! and blue things on them, on the +one next me.” + +“Blue things! What like?” + +“Oh, I dunno! They were blue. Studs, I guess. He was awful ugly, and +thin.” + +Ismay stopped short on the soaking pavement, and whistled to a belated +hansom. + +“Come on; we’re going to get that money!” she said, and before the boy +could object she had jerked him adroitly into the cab. + +But as she gave the driver an address that made him stare, her bold +heart was quailing. In another hour she might have given her own mother +over to be hanged! At best it would be touch and go. She caught the +bootblack’s dirty hand and clung to it despairingly, as if to her only +friend. Something not herself was driving her; something she must obey. +She shook in her terror, sitting close to the dirty little boy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +INTO THE LION’S MOUTH. + + +In the sickness of her suspense Ismay turned to the bootblack. Her +mouth was so stiff and dry that she questioned him chiefly to see if +her tongue would obey her. + +“Why didn’t you go straight to the police and tell them all you knew +this afternoon? That man in the house was only a servant, who didn’t +care what you knew.” + +“I ain’t lucky,” he said cunningly. “It’s all right if they comes to +you, then you has to answer. But it’s never no good to go and blow the +gaff on any one. You gets it in the neck after.” + +“That’s nonsense,” with uneasy sharpness. What if the child were right? + +“I never was in no cab before,” he remarked gaily. “It’s fine, ain’t +it? Where are we going?” + +“We’re nearly there.” She peered out into the silent, dreary streets +evasively. + +“I say, you’re not taking me to no refuge?” he cried suspiciously. +“Because I won’t go, and you can’t make me. I earn my living, I do.” + +“No, we’re not going to--a refuge,” she answered, with a pang at her +heart. For truly she was going into the lion’s mouth. + +They had turned under a stone archway, and the hansom stopped at an +open door, where the cold electric light shone relentlessly. + +She dared not stop to pay the cab, for the boy, with a yell, and a wild +squirm, was trying to get away from her. + +“I ain’t done nothing,” he screeched, “and you’re a liar. You said +you’d nothing to do with the coppers, and you’ve brought me to Scotland +Yard!” + +He bit at her hand as she forced him into the grim hall, under the +glaring lights. + +“Listen!” she cried; “no one’s going to hurt you. It’s I they’ll hurt +if it’s any one. You’re not going to get anything but good.” + +But the bootblack merely roared and kicked. Two policemen, who were +standing by a door, came forward. + +“What’s the matter, miss?” one asked affably. “Has he been picking your +pocket? I beg your pardon, madam!” for Ismay, without slackening her +hold on the writhing child, had looked at him as a queen looks at a +forward servant. + +“He has done nothing,” she said clearly. “Is the inspector here, Mr. +Davids?” she spoke on chance. Davids had been inspector here four years +ago. He might have left or died since then. + +“Yes, madam. But----” he hesitated. “It’s very late, and these things +usually go to the police court.” + +“Go and tell him I want to see him.” The tone was perfectly civil, but +the man went as if he had been shot out of a gun. Who was this that +came so late, in the clothes of a working girl, with the speech and +manner of a duchess? But the inspector, sitting wearily, waiting for a +report, was not much interested. He was too well used to women arriving +at strange hours, and they had generally lost their umbrellas. + +“Let her in,” he said resignedly. “Did you say she was a lady?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +Ismay took her last coin from her pocket as the man came out. + +“Pay my hansom,” she said, and heard the second policeman laugh. + +“The like of them coming in hansoms!” And for a moment she regretted +her worn-out, ugly clothes. + +A lady! As the door closed behind her and the struggling boy, who was +fighting dumbly, too terrified to scream, the inspector looked up in +surprise. The girl was as shabby, if not as ragged, as the boy. + +“Please tell him that he is not to be hurt, that he’s safe,” she said +quickly. “He’s so frightened.” + +The inspector looked from her to the child. + +“Then what have you brought him here for at this hour?” he asked +sternly. + +“Because he knows something about the Onslow Square mystery.” Now that +the die was cast and she must speak, she could hardly drag out the +words. + +“What! that child?” said the inspector incredulously. But he rose and +went over to the gasping, terrified boy, and put a kindly hand on his +shoulder. + +“No one will hurt you,” he said, and the firm touch of his hand quieted +the child like magic. + +As he looked up he met Ismay’s eyes, darkly green, but dull as +malachite. + +“Mr. Davids, don’t you know me?” And in spite of her quiet voice he saw +she trembled. + +“I am Ismay Trelane. Do you remember the night you raided my mother’s +house in St. John’s Wood for a gambling-den? I was a child, and afraid. +You stopped me as I was running out of the house, and you carried me +up-stairs to my bed.” + +“Mrs. Trelane is your mother? You are that long-legged child?” He +stood, remembering the utter forlornness of the little girl, her +miserable bedroom in that sumptuous house, her pride that kept her from +crying as she clung to him. + +“How do you come here?” he asked. “I heard your mother had--had gone +back to her relations.” + +The boy, now that they talked of other things, was relieved; also +that no policemen were in the room was reassuring. He sat down in a +frightened way on the edge of a chair, staring at them. + +“I’m going to tell you.” Bravely she held up her small, lovely head, +till he wondered at her beauty and her hard-held agony. “If I’m wrong, +and there isn’t enough to go on----” she caught her breath. + +“Sit down.” The inspector pushed a chair toward her, his weariness all +gone. + +Slowly, clearly, she told him everything, except that Marcus Wray meant +Sir Gaspard’s daughter to die. Let her die; she would no longer raise a +finger to save her. It was not to prevent Wray’s crimes, but to bring +them home to him, that she was here. + +When she came to the scarab she faltered a little, for Davids was +frowning. Yet he could not wonder, looking at her marvelous face, at +Cylmer’s weakness in giving her his secret. He only wondered at the +blindness that had made the man refuse to hear her story. And still, +when it was all done, he shook his head very pitifully. + +“I’m afraid it isn’t enough,” he said, looking at the girl who had come +to London in despair to try and save the mother against whom things +looked so dark. + +Ismay pointed to the boy. + +“Ask him,” she said dully. “I went to Onslow Square. I found him on the +steps, crying because they wouldn’t let him in.” + +The child, who had sat dumb and only half-comprehending, shied at +first, then, under the half-teasing questions of the inspector, grew +garrulous, then proud of his importance. + +“I’d know him fast enough, if I see him,” he observed cheerfully. “He +upset my box when he passed me, and so I run after him, and I see him +drop that bottle. It was shiny, and I run and grabbed it.” + +“Or it would have been ground to powder?” the inspector said musingly. +“It would have been a clever idea if it had worked better.” + +He held out the scarab in its broken setting. + +“Was the blue thing on his cuff like this?” + +“I dunno. I hadn’t time to see. Won’t it soon be morning, mister? I’m +awful hungry.” + +“What are you going to do?” said Ismay, very low. For there had been no +change in that imperturbable face. + +Davids turned round from a cupboard, whence he produced some biscuits +for the boy, who fell on them ravenously. + +“Where does this man Wray live?” he asked, and she told him. + +He locked away the scarab and the bottle in silence, and the girl’s +beautiful face grew blank and wan. Was he going to do nothing? Had she +told her story in vain? + +“I won’t hide anything from you, Miss Trelane,” he said bluntly. “I’m +going myself to Wray’s rooms, and I must tell you if we find nothing +there, and have only this boy’s story to go on, the case against your +mother will scarcely be improved. The child can identify Wray, perhaps, +but he may be able to clear himself with the greatest of ease.” + +Ismay looked at him blankly. Her head ached till the pain numbed her, +her excitement had gone, and instead she felt sick. If she had told +all, only for Cylmer to triumph in her mother’s guilt, what should she +do? Yet her lips never quivered as she nodded in assent. + +“I am going to turn the key on you, too,” he said, so evenly that she +did not know whether he thought her an impostor or not. “And you’d +better try to sleep. I may be a long time.” + +He wondered afresh at her courage as he left her alone with the boy, +in a suspense that must be like the very grasp of death. He was not +too certain of her, either. She seemed truthful, but she was Mrs. +Trelane’s child. A long acquaintance with that lady’s career did not +lead to confidence in her daughter. Hour by hour the night wore on. The +bootblack slept coiled up on the floor; but Ismay sat bolt upright, +wide-awake, her damp clothes drying on her. + +Once she started to her feet at a noise outside. But whoever it was +passed on, and as the dark hour before dawn hung on the earth her head +fell backward on the leather chair. The night was so long, the day so +far off yet, and there was nothing to tell her what the sunrise would +bring. + +Davids, coming in before the first gray light began to make the lights +pale, stopped on the threshold and looked pitifully at the boy and +girl. Both were asleep; the boy with a tear-stained face; the girl +like a lovely marble image, an image of a woman who has drunk deep of +a bitter cup in her youth, and must remember the taste of it till her +dying day. The inspector was a hard man, and this was his trade, but +something in the sight touched his heart. + +“Poor children!” he said softly. “Poor babes that have never been +young,” and, with a gentle hand, he touched Ismay’s shoulder. + +“Wake up!” he cried softly. “You must catch the early train back to the +country. You can’t do any good here.” + +She started to her feet; wan, haggard, with black rings round her eyes. + +“Me alone?” she said. He noted approvingly that she showed no symptom +of screaming. “Yes, alone. It is our only chance. Can you get into your +room without being seen?” + +“I think so, if there’s time.” + +Her eyes widened like a cat’s as she looked at his face. She was awake +now to the new day. And at what she saw there she cried out aloud, her +icy calm shattered at last. + +“You’ve been very brave. Can you be braver still?” the man said slowly. + +And the girl, whose strength was nearly done, said “yes.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +“SAVE ME FROM MYSELF!” + + +The conversation had been exciting enough, yet Mr. Wray was bored. + +“Where is Ismay?” he asked shortly, as he finished his very late +breakfast. + +Mrs. Trelane shrugged her shoulders. + +“She’s in bed. She told Jessie she wasn’t to be disturbed till she +rang.” + +Wray’s eyebrows went up. Truly, these were airs in a girl who had been +used to cooking her own breakfast, and been glad to have it to cook. + +“I’ll go to her.” Mrs. Trelane rose quickly, reading his face +anxiously. She had watched him open his letters, and she had seen +annoyance in his face. + +“What do you want Ismay for?” Cristiane inquired coquettishly. + +Wray suppressed a bad word. All the previous evening Cristiane, whose +successes had gone to her head, had fairly flung herself at his head. +She had sung to him, talked to him, bored him, till he could have +strangled her. And now she was hammering the last few nails into her +coffin. + +“I don’t want her, especially,” he said coldly, wishing the little fool +would hold her tongue. + +Cristiane laughed. + +“Do you know what I think?” she asked. “I think you are in love with +her.” + +Under the table he shut one hand hard. + +“Do you? Why? + +“Ain’t people in love when they kneel down beside a girl, and kiss her, +once, twice, twenty times?” nodding her head knowingly at each number. + +Wray was for a moment taken back. + +So the little fool had seen him! Now she had begun to suspect; the next +thing she would begin to talk, perhaps to Cylmer; and if he carried out +his schemes it would be with a light on them that would make them plain +to the world. + +Cristiane had signed her own death-warrant. She was no longer innocent, +but dangerous and in the way. To-night she should be no longer one nor +the other. He looked at her with that frank gaze that always cloaked +his worst deceits. + +“When a man dare not ask for what he wants, because it is so far above +him, do you blame him for taking--what he can get?” His voice, full of +hopeless longing, made the blood of triumph spring to her cheeks. Here +again she would defeat Ismay! + +“Yes,” she said, her eyes on the table-cloth. “You could have--tried! +You need not have kissed her,” pettishly, “before my very eyes.” + +“Cristiane!” he was on his feet at her side, his voice thrilling with +simulated joy and passion; “you’re angry because I kissed her? You +care?” + +She did not care, beyond her vanity that was piqued, but she was afraid +to say so. Somehow the man dominated her till she sat an arrant coward. +She trembled before his eyes, that were full of a passion that she +thought was love; she had no intuition to tell her that it was hatred +and the threat of death. + +“I--I don’t know!” she stammered. + +“You shall know!” he retorted, knowing better than to plead with her. +His hand, softly brutal, was under her chin. “Kiss me,” he ordered. +“Tell me you love me.” + +Like a frightened child, she repeated the words, and he knew she +lied as she spoke. He was right, she was dangerous; weak, obstinate, +self-willed, with an utterly unbridled tongue. + +“Kiss me,” he repeated, longing to choke her instead, and having +nothing but distaste for her peachlike cheek, her parted lips. He was +relieved that she sprang away from him--and she never dreamed that he +let her go. + +From the door she looked back provokingly. “Not now--perhaps to-night!” +and she went off singing. + +Mrs. Trelane heard her, as, having been in a hurry despite her hasty +retreat, she stood leisurely at Ismay’s door. Her shrewd ears caught +the excited note in the girl’s voice. + +“He’s been making love to her,” she thought astutely. + +“Marcus making love at this hour in the morning! Can he mean to go that +way for his money, after all?” She knocked, this time with earnestness, +at Ismay’s locked door. It opened on the instant. + +Ismay, dressed as usual, stood inside, her eyes a little heavy, her +face unnaturally flushed. She had got back by the early train, driving +from the station to the gate in a fly, moneyless no longer, thanks to +Davids; by eight o’clock had gained her room, unseen by any one, since +the servants were at breakfast, and the rest of the house waiting till +half-past eight should bring their tea and hot water. + +As the girl bathed and dressed herself it almost seemed to her that +it was a dream, that she could never have been in London and got back +again in those few hours while the house slept. Only the instructions +she had from Davids told her it was no dream, but reality. At the sight +of her mother, for the first time in all her life she flung her arms +round her and kissed her. + +Mrs. Trelane gazed at her stupidly. + +“What’s the matter?” she drawled. “Why do you greet me as if I had been +buried for years? This isn’t the resurrection day.” + +Ismay smiled wickedly. It was more like the day of judgment, to her +mind. + +“What on earth have you been shutting yourself up for?” Mrs. Trelane +inquired crossly. “And why didn’t you answer last night when there was +all that fuss? You must have heard me knocking.” + +“What fuss? I told you long ago I wouldn’t open my door at night. I was +tired, too. I wanted to rest.” + +“You don’t look as if repose had agreed with you,” said her mother +acidly. “Your face is blazing, and I don’t see how you could rest with +Cristiane screaming. Don’t you want any breakfast?” + +“I’ve had it,” shortly, curiosity overwhelming her. “What was she +screaming about?” + +“That ghost of yours and Thomas’,” she began contemptuously, but her +face fell. “It’s too queer to be nice in this big house at night,” she +added, closing the door behind her and sitting down. “I don’t wonder +the girl screamed. I was frightened to death.” + +“My ghost couldn’t have frightened you last night!” For her life, Ismay +could not help the retort, but she was puzzled. “What do you mean?” + +“Well, the ghost, then,” quite unconscious of the significance of the +girl’s manner. “You were shut up in here, and I went to bed early. +Marcus and Cristiane stayed down-stairs----” + +“You left them together?” Ismay broke in with real dismay, for +Cristiane had probably profited by the opportunity to air Ismay’s +acquaintance with Cylmer. + +“I’m not Providence!” said the woman smartly; “and, besides, I had +neuralgia. At all events they sat up late, and when they came up-stairs +they heard that music. Marcus, of course, didn’t know Cristiane had +never heard about it, and he told her Thomas’ nonsense about the ghost.” + +“How did he know about it?” + +“Oh, I told him! I was frightened one night myself. Ismay,” her face +changing, “as sure as I see you this minute, I heard those awful steps, +coming closer and closer, till I was paralyzed with fear. And, later +on, Marcus went up-stairs to see who was playing that piano, and his +candle went out the moment he entered the room.” + +“I told you this wasn’t a nice house at night. But go on. What happened +last night?” + +“Well, Cristiane had hysterics--you must have heard her; declared her +father couldn’t rest in his grave, and what not. She nearly choked +Marcus holding on round his neck, so that he couldn’t go up and see. I +couldn’t stop her, and up came Thomas, half-dressed, and Jessie, and +altogether we got Cristiane to stop her shrieking. + +“Then Marcus ran up-stairs, and Thomas after him, begging him to let +the room alone. ‘There was a curse on it.’” + +“Well, did he?” with sudden interest. + +“That’s the queer part. When he got up there the door was locked, and +Thomas said he hadn’t locked it. Marcus was going to break open the +door, and I thought the old man would have killed him. He said that his +dead master’s orders were that no one was to enter that room, and he +was there to see them obeyed. Even Marcus had to give in to him.” + +“Good for Thomas!” the girl observed quietly. “Was the spirit playing +all this time?” + +“No; it was quieter than the grave. So Marcus shrugged his +shoulders--you know how he does--and we came down-stairs again. There +wasn’t another sound all night. But to-night he and Cristiane are going +up to investigate after Thomas is in bed. They planned it at breakfast, +and she’s going to get a key. I don’t know what Marcus is up to, for +I don’t think he believes in ghosts. I suppose it will be a good +opportunity for flirtation, for lately I think he’s made up his mind to +marry her.” + +“To-night, are they?” For some unknown reason Miss Trelane leaned back +in her chair and laughed, wrinkling up her eyes deliciously. + +“Oh, I don’t think he’ll marry her,” she remarked. “You forget he means +to marry me.” + +Mrs. Trelane flushed under her powder. + +“How do you know?” she said, with sudden suspicion. + +“If I don’t know it’s not for want of hearing,” the retort remarkably +misleading in its truth. + +“Oh, mother, how I hate him, don’t you? He has been our evil genius +ever since Abbotsford was murdered.” + +“I hate him well enough,” said her mother sullenly; “but I don’t want +him to tell I took those diamonds. I could never prove myself innocent +of the other, if it came out that it was I who took those.” + +“And yet you are innocent. You haven’t blood enough to sin--like that.” + +“Have you?” asked the woman, aghast, for the cold, queer eyes were a +thing to shudder at. + +“I wouldn’t murder; it’s generally so messy. But I could stand by if I +hated a man, and see him commit a murder, just so that I might see him +hanged for it. And so,” very deliberately, “would you!” + +“Ismay, you know?” the wretched woman, whose cunning had failed her, +crouched abjectly in her chair, as she whispered the words. + +“I know nothing; neither do you,” Ismay rejoined sternly. “But he +would--hang!” The words came out slowly, separately, like the blows of +a hammer. + +“I couldn’t see it,” the woman was sobbing wildly, the girl’s face set +like a rock. “Besides, he’d tell before he died--about the diamonds--it +wouldn’t be safe. Ismay, Ismay, you’re stronger than I ever was. For +God’s sake, save me from myself!” + +And it was the mother who bore her who was agonized at her daughter’s +feet, who prayed to her for help against herself. + +“Save me from myself!” the girl repeated mechanically. Was that her own +prayer, too? She trembled, and did not know. + +The next instant she was kneeling by her mother’s chair. + +“Mother, don’t look like that; don’t speak like that,” she implored, +and even Miles Cylmer would not have known the voice was hers. “I did +not mean it. I only said it from wickedness.” + +And all through that day that seemed unending, Ismay Trelane, eating, +drinking, talking, was fighting a battle between the good and evil in +her soul. + +Desperately, she thrust aside the importunate cry that rose in her +mind, bidding her kneel down and cry it aloud with her lips. + +“Save me from myself!” + +Fiercely, she tried to kill the best impulse of her life, and harden +her heart for the end. + +Cristiane, dead, could never get Cylmer back again, and Marcus Wray was +doomed already. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +“THE DEED IN THE DARK.” + + +The house was dark as the grave; quiet as death. From somewhere a clock +struck the hour with one solemn stroke, that clanged and echoed through +the silent halls. + +Mrs. Trelane, lying sleepless in her bedroom, where she had been sent +like a beaten dog by one glance from Wray, sprang up with causeless +terror. Only the remembrance of Ismay’s locked door kept her from +running to the girl for companionship, but she dared not stand outside +that door, even for one minute, and knock in vain, with perhaps those +awful steps behind her. + +Cowering in her pillows, she listened, but heard no more. Even to +herself she would not own that what she feared was not so much the +ghost, as what Marcus Wray might be going to do this night in the dark. +For she had seen him look once at Cristiane that day, and the look held +death in it. + +Once, earlier in the night, she had fancied she heard the noiseless +tread of cautious feet, as though people passed her door silently. She +had looked out, then, and seen nothing but Ismay, pale as death itself, +standing alone in the still lighted hall. + +“What’s the matter?” the girl said. “Don’t say you want me, because +I’m going to bed,” and she went into her room and locked the door +carelessly, as though death and retribution were left outside. + +There were quiet steps again now, but Mrs. Trelane’s fingers were in +her ears, and she never heard them. + +Marcus Wray and Cristiane had come up silently, he with a light in one +hand, the other round Cristiane’s waist, that terror might not make +her break away from him. + +Frightened she was, but like a child who enjoys a game that startles +it, but also a little afraid of the arm that was so grimly protective. +It was amusing to be hunting ghosts at night with a man who was in love +with you; but it was also, somehow, disquieting. + +There was not a sound as they stood at the turn of the stairs, with +only half a dozen more steps to mount to the hall the haunted room +opened from. Wray stopped, candle in hand. It was no ghost-hunting that +had brought him up here at the dead of night. + +“Why didn’t you go on?” she whispered. + +He kissed her, almost savagely. + +“I don’t hear anything. I’m waiting for the music.” + +“Oh, I’m frightened of it! I don’t want to hear it. Let us go down.” +Their voices were echoing in the hall above as in a whispering gallery. + +“Down!” The man held his candle aloft, and looked down the well of the +stairs. Down, down, it went till his eye lost in the blackness the hard +oak floor of the great hall below. There was no one to see him, and his +face was the face of a devil. He set his candle on the stair. + +“You can go down--presently,” he answered recklessly. He took a sharp +sideways step so that she was pressed near the banister. Far below +he saw the light of a candle. Thomas was carrying it, the old man +was coming up-stairs. It was all the better; an accident, without a +witness, sometimes smelled of murder. How slowly Thomas was mounting +the stairs! If some one in the hall above had seen Wray’s face, the +glare in his eyes, and caught their breath in swift horror, there might +have been precisely the little sound that reached Cristiane’s ears. + +“What was that? I heard a noise,” she whispered, gazing up the stairs +with great, startled eyes. + +“Nothing!” said Wray furiously. Thomas was nearly up now. + +“Cristiane!” Wray cried at the top of his voice: “what are you doing up +here? There’s no ghost, don’t run. For God’s sake, take care of those +banisters--they’re rotten!” and with God’s name on his lips in the lie +that was to make Thomas a witness who would clear him, he shoved her +suddenly, savagely, against the banisters, that were frail as reeds +with dry rot. + +Cristiane screamed the long, wild cry of a woman in the last pinch of +fear. + +“Help me!” she shrieked again, and for one second his grasp of her +relaxed. She had fallen flat on the stairs, still pressed against the +banisters where they were socketed in the steps. + +Wray put his shoulder against the rail; it cracked, crashed, with half +the uprights, down into the awful depths below. Only half-against the +splintered lower part Cristiane lay huddled. + +With an inarticulate curse, Marcus Wray stooped to do deliberate +murder, to pick up the girl, whose only sin was her wealth and her +defenselessness. Thomas was not come yet; there was no witness. + +But was there? + +Who was that who stood just above him, in a curious white satin gown, +marked with blood on the breast? Who stood dead-white through her +flimsy gauze veil, her eyes burning like cold, green flames? + +He looked, he sprang, kicking over the candle so that there was +darkness. But in that one glance he had known her. It was Ismay who +had played the ghost. Ismay who had seen him now! Beyond himself with +rage and terror, he leaped after her in the dark. In the dark she ran, +voiceless, weakened by the long strain on her, the horror of what she +had been within an ace of allowing to be done. + +A square of moonlight marked the open door that was her safety. She +leaped to it, but Marcus Wray was quicker still. Her flying dress +caught round her feet as he seized it. She fell headlong on the hard, +oak threshold, her head striking it with a dull and awful sound. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +“HEAVENLY TRUE.” + + +Over that quiet body, that had been so quick to dare and do, and need +do neither any more, a furious struggle in the dark, of three men +against one, who saw himself caught red-handed, and fought, not for his +own life, but to kill. + +Then lights in the haunted room, quiet only broken by the hard +breathing of panting men; Marcus Wray, with handcuffs on his wrists, +held fast by two policemen in plain clothes, a small and dirty boy +yelling with excitement: + +“That’s him! That’s the man. I told you I’d know him!” + +Thomas, haggard with frightened amazement, peering in at the door; +behind him Cristiane, crying desperately; Mrs. Trelane in a sumptuous +tea-gown, half-on, that was incongruous with her face, so wan without +its rouge and powder. + +Davids, his hard face full of triumph, since the unraveling of the +Onslow Square mystery was a glory even to him, stepped forward and +touched Marcus Wray’s shoulder. + +“For the murder of the Earl of Abbotsford,” he said, and Wray laughed +in his face. + +“You’ve no proofs!” he sneered. + +Davids drew out a broken cuff-link, a scarab from which a thin chain +dangled. + +“I found this in your rooms,” he said, “and the other half of it one of +my men found in Lord Abbotsford’s bedroom. And this boy saw you go in +and go out on the day of Lord Abbotsford’s murder; saw the blue thing +on your cuff as you threw the bottle that had held the poison into the +middle of the traffic at the corner, to be ground to powder.” + +Once more Wray laughed. + +He had seen a laden omnibus go over the very spot where he had flung +the bottle. + +“Powder, exactly!” he said. “And neither your boy nor your scarabs are +any use without that bottle.” Yet the scarabs had staggered even him. +He had forgotten to take them out; they had gone to the wash in his +shirt, and his washerwoman had returned them with tears, believing she +had broken off one of them in her ironing. + +And Wray, thinking so, too, had never given the missing scarab another +thought. The whole link and the broken one had been lying openly on his +dressing-table last night when the inspector had broken into his rooms. + +He had never thought of Abbotsford even when he fought so madly on +the threshold. It was that these men had seen his attempted murder of +Cristiane le Marchant that had made his case so desperate. + +Davids glanced at him, and at the look his lips grew dry. + +“I have the bottle,” the inspector said simply. “The boy kept it to +play with.” + +Wray looked from one to the other, like a devil incarnate that is +beaten. + +“May I ask you how you found out this rot?” He could not speak with the +old voice, but he tried. + +“I found it out because a girl was too shrewd and brave for you. Miss +Trelane, by a coincidence, obtained that broken cuff-link; she knew +the hold the stolen diamonds had given you on her mother; she came to +London by chance, came on the only night since the murder when she +could lay her hands on the evidence that was wanted; she found the boy, +and brought him straight to me, with the broken bit of jewelry that I +found the other half of in your room.” + +“She? Ismay!” His oath sounded loud in the quiet room. “She was a spy! +Well, it’s a comfort to me to know that I’ve killed her!” + +He stretched out his manacled hands and pointed where the girl lay on +the floor, face down. + +No one had noticed her at first. She had tripped and lay still, worn +out--that was all. + +But they looked now on a huddled heap of white satin, on slow blood +that oozed scarlet from her hidden forehead. + +Cristiane screamed from the depths of a penitent soul: + +“She’s dead! He’s killed her. And it was she who saved me just now. He +was trying to push me through the banisters, and I looked up and saw +her. She motioned with her hand for me to drop down flat, and I did. +It saved me, for the upper part of the banisters went, as I would have +gone if I’d been standing. I thought it was the ghost, but I saw her +eyes, and I knew her. I dropped as she meant me to, and then he stooped +to throw me over, and she sprang at him from behind. Oh! Ismay!” she +threw herself on the floor by the slight figure that was so awful in +its stillness. “Ismay, look up! Forgive me! Don’t lie like that!” + +But Ismay did not stir. + +Davids put out a hand that shook in his dread, to draw Cristiane away. + +But some one was quicker than he; some one who hurled himself through +the doorway, brushing past Thomas and Mrs. Trelane as if he did not see +them. + +Cylmer, by merest chance, had been hunting twenty miles off, doing +his best to forget the girl he loved, had stayed to dine with a noisy +party, and came back by train. + +As he stood on the station platform, waiting for his dog-cart, a man +had touched him on the shoulder. + +“Kivers!” he cried. “What brings you here?” + +“Good news for you, Mr. Cylmer!” the man said softly, though there was +no one in hearing. “The inspector has discovered Lord Abbotsford’s +murderer. He and three of the force are at Marchant’s Hold now. I’m +waiting here, in case there’s any accidents, and they make a run for +the station.” + +“They! Marchant’s Hold!” Cylmer was sick. Then the blow had fallen! + +“I’m going there,” he said, through set lips. Was he too late? Could he +carry off Ismay, or would he find her with handcuffs on her wrists? + +“Wait; they won’t let you in; our men won’t know you.” Kivers thrust +a hastily scrawled card in Cylmer’s hand, wondering not at all at his +excitement, when at last the murderer of his friend was in his hands. + +But the groom on the back of the two-wheeled cart prayed to the saints, +and clung for his life; the galloping horse, the swaying dog-cart, and +a master who had suddenly gone crazy, were too much for him. The wind +whistled past Cylmer’s ears with the speed of his going, but it seemed +years before he stopped his reeking, blown horse at Marchant’s Hold. He +was forced to wait while a policeman on guard read Kivers’ note and let +him into the house. + +But there was not a soul to be seen, not a sound anywhere. As he +listened in the dark, not knowing which way to turn, he heard a woman +sob, up-stairs, far above him. He was up three steps at a time, lost in +wonder as he ran. What in Heaven’s name were they doing in the garret? + +An open door; a lighted room; Mrs. Trelane and Thomas barring the way. + +Mrs. Trelane, free, scathless! + +Then it must be Ismay--Ismay! And he was too late. + +He could not move nor speak for the cruel pain that brought the cold +sweat on his forehead. + +“Ismay.” He listened, silent, breathless; he dared not go in lest he +should see her, now that he was too late. + +Davids’ voice, cold, incisive, startled him; then Wray’s. Yet it was +not till Cristiane was kneeling by Ismay that he saw her. And then he +saw nothing else. He was down by her side, lifting her, her blood on +his hands, his heart craving her. The girl his self-righteousness had +rejected, who, because he would not hear her and help her, had fought +her battle alone--to die from it. + +He would not, would not have it! She was stunned; it must be that she +was stunned. But the heart under his hand did not even flicker. + +“Are you going to let her die here?” he cried. “Move, Cristiane; let +me carry her to her bed. You are her mother”--turning fiercely on Mrs. +Trelane--“send some one for a doctor!” + +Tenderly, jealously, he lifted her, whom no other hands should touch. +And as he carried her her lovely head fell backward on his arm, her +hands hung at his side, swaying like a dead woman’s. + +Masterfully, as one who has a right, he sponged the blood from her +face, when she lay on her bed in her fantastic dress. There was but a +simple cut on her forehead--not enough to make her unconscious. + +“Why is she dressed like this?” he said sternly to Mrs. Trelane, who +stood, dazed and helpless, not even wondering why he was there. + +“The house was said to be haunted. She played the ghost to overhear +Marcus at night talking to me. She played it to-night to save +Cristiane, and to get Marcus up to the room where the police waited for +him,” for the inspector had spoken brutal truths to her, and at last +she knew what the girl had done for her sake. + +She drew the bloody scarf from Ismay’s head, and Cylmer could see. +Under her left ear was a bruise--only a little bruise; yet he groaned +as he saw it. Wray, as she tripped, had struck her there, as a +prize-fighter strikes, with the deadly accuracy of knowledge. No one +should have her if he could not. + +It was a man hopeless and helpless whom the doctor sent from the room, +for it was he who had done it. If he had heard her out that day she +would even now be warm with life. + +Mechanically, he found his way to the empty drawing-room, where one +lamp burned, forgotten. + +In the house were noises of many feet, as Davids and his men took +away Marcus Wray with handcuffs on his wrists; a going to and fro of +frightened servants on the staircases; then the hush of a house where a +soul is passing. But Miles Cylmer knew none of these things. + +He was down upon his face in very hell. + +If it were he, not she, who must die! How should he rise and look upon +the day when they came to tell him his love was dead? + +How should he live, when in a few days they would commit her sweet body +to the dust? + +As though tears of blood were rising from his heart to his eyes the +man looked into a red mist as some one came into the room, and he sat +up. + +It was the doctor. + +“Well?” It was all Cylmer could say. + +“I don’t know.” His voice changed suddenly to deepest pity at the +haggard face before him, livid as if with years. “My dear Cylmer, I +don’t know. She is alive; but the blow must have been a cruel one. She +may live for days in a stupor, as she lies now.” + +“And then?” + +“She is young and strong. She may have vitality enough----” But he +could not finish. He knew that in all human probability the candle of +her life would burn lower and lower, till scarcely even he would know +when it was burned away. + +“Can I go to her? I was going to marry her.” + +Cylmer’s voice was perfectly steady as he rose, a strange figure in +his overcoat, that he had never taken off, a scarlet stain on its +fawn-colored sleeve. + +The doctor nodded. + +“She won’t know you, Cylmer--she has never opened her eyes; but she +breathes still. I’ll be here till morning.” + +“Breathes still.” The gentle words rang in Cylmer’s ears as he went +up-stairs. But yesterday she had been all his own; to-day all that pity +could find to say was that. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +“AND WHO IS THIS?” + + +For a day and a night he watched her as she lay. Sometimes he leaned +over her in sudden fright that she had ceased to breathe; sometimes he +fancied she stirred, that her eyelids quivered. But neither the good +nor the bad was true. The slow hours came and passed and died, and +there was no change on that quiet face. + +Cylmer turned away as the nurse approached the bed, bearing wine and +a spoon. He hated that useless cruelty of trying to feed her. It +sickened him to see the things they gave her ooze from the corners of +her lips. + +He stood leaning by the window and watched with listless inattention a +carriage driving to the door. Curious visitors came by the score, to +be turned away. Cristiane had no heart to see them; Mrs. Trelane, with +the prospect of going into court to account for those stolen diamonds +before her, would face no one. + +A quick, cautious cry from the nurse made Cylmer turn. With two strides +he was at the bedside. Had Ismay gone--passed from him without a word, +while he looked out on the sky whose glory was gone forever? + +“She’s not----” + +“Quick! Go tell the doctor to come here! He’s down-stairs with the +specialist from London. She swallowed that champagne.” + +Before the woman could lay down the spoon Cylmer was back, with the two +men at his heels. + +Ismay turned on her side, moaned. Slowly, very slowly, her eyes opened, +then shut again, seeing nothing. + +“Ismay! Is she--dying?” his tongue cleaving to his mouth. + +The little doctor laid a hand on Cylmer’s shoulder. + +“Dying! No; she’s saved.” For with a steady hand the nurse was putting +more wine to the lips that closed now on the spoon. + +With a little sigh Ismay Trelane opened her eyes. + +The shock in her brain had made her forget all recent things--Marcus +Wray, Davids, her quarrel with Cylmer, were all gone from her mind, as +a slate is sponged off. All she saw was the man she loved bending over +her, holding her hands. + +With a heavenly smile of rest and peace she smiled at him. + +“Miles,” she whispered. “My Miles!” + +“Lie still, my heart! I’m here,” he answered simply. + +“Hold my hand,” she sighed, and closed her eyes happily, in a sleep +that was sweet and natural. + +And, kneeling by her bed, he held that hand he loved, till with the +hours he, too, slept. + +When she woke again it was he who fed her, and then, and not till +then, he went away, cramped and stiff, but happy as he had not been in +his life. + +As he washed and dressed himself in the clothes that had come for him +from Cylmer’s Ferry, he heard a whispered conversation at his door, +then a knock that made him leap to open it. Was Ismay worse? + +But it was not Ismay. + +A man stood on the threshold--two men. + +Mr. Bolton, the lawyer, and another--bearded, thin, but hale and +strong. And yet Cylmer could not believe his senses. Had his long +watching made him see visions? + +“Gaspard!” he cried, wondering who this man could be that was so like +the man that was in his grave. “Not Gaspard--but who?” + +“It’s I, fast enough,” the man answered simply. “Let us in. I only got +to England to-day.” + +“To England?” Cylmer started foolishly. “But----” + +“But I was never killed, and never buried. I had lent my coat to a +Frenchman, and they buried what was left of him for me. I came to +myself and wandered away, quite cracked. When I woke up I was in bed in +a cottage, and a woman was looking after me. I didn’t know my own name, +even, and I was in hideous pain. + +“I lay like that for I don’t know how long. When I came to myself they +told me I was in the lodge of the country-house of the Duke of Tours, +and that he, on hearing a man was ill there, had sent his doctor from +Paris. He had done an operation that meant kill or cure, and it was +cure.” + +“But Bolton told me you were dying of heart-disease?” + +“So my doctors thought, but this one was young and very clever. He +thought it was something else, and it was. He cut it away. That’s all.” +He smiled in Cylmer’s puzzled face. + +“But the railway people. How was it they didn’t know?” + +Sir Gaspard laughed out. + +“You’re very anxious I should be an impostor. Did you wish to marry my +heiress?” he cried cheerfully. “There was no mark or wound on me; the +woman never connected me with the accident to the train, nor did any +one, till I was recovered and able to tell them. It was all so simple +that no one ever thought of it.” + +“You never wrote,” wonderingly. + +“No! I couldn’t have waited for the answer. When I was fit to write I +was fit to travel, so I came straight to Bolton, here, and he told me +things that brought me home on the double-quick. It’s all too awful. +And to think it was that will I made that was such a pitfall! Will that +poor child die?” + +“No.” Cylmer put down the hair-brush he had all the time been holding. +“Thank God, no!” he said slowly. “For I am going to marry her.” + +“Marry her.” It took all Sir Gaspard could do not to exclaim in +amazement. “Marry the daughter of a woman not yet out of suspicion of +murder, with the theft of the diamonds on her to a certainty!” + +Cylmer nodded. + +“Wait. I’ll tell you all,” he said, and Sir Gaspard listened in wonder. +“Marry her,” he had said, as though she were a leper, and but for her +Cristiane would be cold in her grave. He stretched out his hand and +took Cylmer’s in a clasp of gratitude, without a spoken word. + +“Have you seen Cristiane?” For the first time Cylmer thought of her. + +Sir Gaspard smiled. + +“Didn’t you hear us in the passage?” he asked. “I only persuaded her to +leave me for ten minutes by saying that you were certain to come to the +door half-dressed. She’s wild with joy; she can hardly believe in me +yet.” + +“She missed you.” And if the tone was dry Sir Gaspard did not notice +it. Not yet could Mr. Cylmer bear any good-will to Cristiane. + +Only one thing troubled Cylmer now. With Sir Gaspard’s return things +were smoothed out, indeed, all but this. It hung over him more and more +heavily as Ismay grew better, and at last could talk to him. + +Those stolen diamonds that could not be explained away! His mind was +full of them as he sat with Ismay alone in her sitting-room. But he +kept his trouble off his lips, and talked of other things that he might +not see it reflected in her eyes. + +“You never asked me how I managed the ghost-music,” she said suddenly, +with her old, lovely smile, that was so much more wistful than of old. + +“No. How did you? For it played of itself before you meddled with it, +Thomas says.” + +“I went up one night to see, and I was frightened out of my life, at +first. And then I found out. There was a spring--just a simple little +spring--so light that the weight of a rat on it could set the thing +going. And there were plenty of rats there. It was just an ordinary +old-fashioned spinet till the spring touched the mechanism, then it +played of itself. While it was playing like that you could not sound a +note on it. Afterward, when the tune was done, you could play. I made +a dress like the ghost’s, or the picture that was supposed to be the +ghost’s, so that if any one met me in the passages they would scream +and run. And I found out he meant to murder Cristiane while I was +behind the library door.” + +“Did you know Wray made Sir Gaspard’s will?” + +She nodded. + +“I heard him say so.” + +“And for fear it should go wrong he forged another,” Cylmer went on. +“Don’t look sad, darling. He deserves everything.” + +But she shivered. + +“It has all been such a nightmare. I wish I had had no hand in it. +Miles, can you truly love a girl like me?” She was earnest, pale, as +she looked at him. + +He kissed the hand that was in his, where a new ring shone. + +“Who nearly gave her life twice for another’s,” he said, with adoration. + +“I liked her, in a way. Till she told you things.” + +She hid her face on his arm. “Miles, do you know I meant to let her +die the last time? You were my world--she had taken you from me.” + +“You never meant it, my heart,” he whispered. “You only thought so.” + +“And I stole that card of yours, so that you might come to me.” + +Cylmer lifted the head that lay so low, and looked straight into her +shamed eyes. + +“Do you think a hundred cards would have mattered, if I had loved her?” +he demanded. “You were mine, and I was yours, from the first hour, +though I was too blind to know.” + +“But I meant when I left you to live----” He stopped her words on her +lips. + +“Let me forget--that day!” he begged, “for it was I who was to blame. +If you had slipped from me your life would have been on my head.” + +She looked at him with a curious pride. + +“Miles,” she said slowly, “I am my mother’s daughter still, and there +are the diamonds!” + +The man caught her close and hard. + +“If they were all the world it would not matter,” he said stoutly. +“If I had only seen you and passed by,” his voice full of love, of +reverence, “I should be proud of having once seen you, my witch that +was so true.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +THE DIAMONDS. + + +“If you owed him no ill-will, why did you steal those diamonds?” + +The court-room was crowded, packed with idle people come to see a man +tried for his life. + +It was more exciting than a theater, for the drama was real. + +Among them were perhaps a dozen people who sickened at the hideous +scene. Sir Gaspard, Mr. Bolton, Cylmer--turned away from the man in +the dock as his crimes were brought before him. Utterly hopeless, he +was venomous still. Not a question that could humiliate Helen Trelane +had his counsel spared her. Cylmer wondered at her courage as she stood +in the witness-stand. Pale, perfectly dressed, she stood unmoved, as +the question of the diamonds was asked. + +Neither Ismay nor Cristiane were there, and Cylmer was thankful. At +least they would not see the spectacle of a woman shamed before the +world. + +He started at the sound of Mrs. Trelane’s voice, as she answered the +question, her words distinct in the close hush. + +“I took them,” she said softly, “because they were mine! He sent for me +to give them to me. This note”--taking it from her pocket--“was on the +table.” + +There was absolute silence in court while the few lines were read aloud: + + “DEAR HELEN: I can’t forget last night. Will you take these and wear + them or sell them, as you like, in memory of our friendship. Yours + faithfully, + + “ABBOTSFORD. + + “P. S.--I wrote this, meaning to send the diamonds, but I have let it + stand, even now that you are coming to see me. You know I never was + much good at talking, and I might not get it said.” + +“Why did you not produce this at the time?” Wray’s counsel asked +sharply. + +“Because I was afraid! I thought I could not clear myself of the +murder,” she answered simply. + +Turning, she met the eyes of the prisoner at the bar, and for all his +desperate straits he smiled with understanding. She was Helen Trelane +still, adventuress to the bone. He knew quite well that she had stolen +that note. + +He had stuffed it into his pocket that day at Abbotsford’s, and had +not burned it for the pure pleasure of having in his hands the proof +that she was really not guilty; afterward, when Sir Gaspard’s will had +delivered her into his hands, he had kept it still, so that when all +was done and Ismay was his he could bring it out and laugh in their +faces. But he dared not say so now. It would only make his case more +black, his conduct more cold-blooded. And he could not see how she +had obtained it; so that his bare word would go for nothing. She had +outwitted him, and he made her a slight ironical sign of admiration +with his eyes. + +And yet it was simple enough. + +When Davids and his men searched Wray’s room at Marchant’s Hold, they +had never thought of a black frock coat that the housemaid had taken +to replace a button. When he was gone the girl had taken it to Mrs. +Trelane, and she had flung it on her bed with loathing, since it +was his. When the girl was gone she picked it up gingerly, to feel +something in the pocket, and so she found her salvation. She had +avoided people after that, not from terror, but to laugh at them in her +sleeve. + +And in the very face of the man who knew the note was stolen, she +left the witness-stand without a stain. He cared but little. He was +defeated, his case hopeless, and he was weary of the court, the curious +faces. Since it must all come out, it should come of his own free will. + +His counsel gasped as the prisoner leaned forward and asked leave of +the judge to make a statement. + +“My lord,” he began; he looked about him listlessly, as if he had very +little interest in his own words, “we have been here a long time, and +I for one am weary. The facts are these: I had lived on Abbotsford for +years, call it chantage, if you like. I lived on him. It was said he +hated women; he had reason. He had been trapped into a marriage with +a woman who was the worst of her sex. She was married already, but no +one knew that but I, for she was my wife.” His insolent, deliberate +voice paused an instant. “I was his best man, and the only witness of +his marriage with a woman whose very existence disgraced him. He paid +me to hold my tongue. But I drove him too far. He found the whole thing +out. He had supported my wife for years, since he was a mere boy, and +he had paid me to keep the marriage that was no marriage a secret, and +he threatened to expose me. I should have been ruined at the bar and +elsewhere. + +“I went to see him on the day his engagement was announced. On the way +I bought a bottle of prussic acid. If he gave me his word not to expose +me, well and good! If not”--he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I was +stronger than he. To knock him down and pour the prussic acid in his +mouth would not be hard. But I had no need. + +“I found him lying on his sofa, ill, but quite obstinate. That very +night should see me a marked and disgraced man; his letters were +written. And then he asked me--me to hand him something that was poured +out ready in a glass, because his throat was sore! I did, but first +I poured in what was in my bottle. He drank a mere mouthful. Then he +threw down the glass and tried to call. But that time was over. + +“I laid him back on the sofa, as if he slept, and I had barely +time to hide in the bedroom when that lady there”--looking at Mrs. +Trelane--“came in and found Lord Abbotsford dead. The rest you know, +even to the jewels that were her own! I trust, my lord, that the +case is done, and that the ladies and gentlemen who have honored the +court”--with an ironical bow--“have not found the entertainment more +dull than they expected.” + +A little rustle ran through the court. Never had there been so +extraordinary an ending to a trial for murder. A man who let his life +go because he was weary of the tedious defense of it! Not even the +judge could find voice for an instant. And then some one screamed. + +Marcus Wray had fallen in the dock like a slaughtered ox. + +“A fit! Poison!” Every soul there gasped out one word or the other. + +But it was neither. The long strain, the sudden effort of cool courage +had ruptured a blood-vessel in his brain. As he fell, so he lay; as +he lay, so he died; never speaking or moving again. The case for the +defense was closed. The luck of Marcus Wray had stuck by him to the +end. + +Ismay clung in silence to Cylmer when he told her. When she lifted her +face it was wet. + +“I’m glad, oh, glad!” she sobbed. “When I thought I had brought him to +it, that it was through me he must be hanged, I didn’t tell you, but I +thought it would drive me mad.” + +“Forget it, sweet. Blot it out from your mind,” was all he could find +to say. “We will never speak of it again.” + +“There’s one thing first. The boy! I promised him money, and I have +none.” + +“You!” he laughed. “You have fifteen thousand pounds a year, all I own. +You shall have the boy taught a trade, and set him up in it. I have +seen about it already!” He looked keenly at her face, that was too +pale, too weary. + +“Ismay,” he said quietly, “I am going to marry you in three weeks, +as soon as things can be arranged, and take you away to travel. Can +you bear that prospect? I’ve never known you go to church. Will you +come--once--with me?” + +The color flooded her face. + +“To marry you, do you mean?” She clung to him. Ismay, who had relied +on herself alone. “Yes; but, Miles, listen. I don’t want any wedding, +and I won’t wear a white gown. The only white gown I ever owned had a +blood-stain on it, and I can’t forget it--yet.” + +“As you like, my sweet.” And the touch of his lips on her forehead was +full of understanding. + +They were married as she wished, quietly, Sir Gaspard giving away the +bride, and portioning her with generosity born of his great gratitude. +It was two years before Miles Cylmer and Ismay came home to Cylmer’s +Ferry, two years that Mrs. Trelane spent gaily, having five hundred a +year allowed her by the baronet, and living where she liked. + +Cristiane, sobered and steadied, lived with her father, and he had his +wish of taking her to London, and seeing her marry a man who preferred +her before any green-eyed Circe in the world. + +To do her justice, Sir Gaspard never heard of that stolen card, only of +Ismay’s protection and bravery in the tragic chapters of her life. And +there is no cynicism now in the lines of Ismay Cylmer’s beautiful face. +The love that nearly was her doom has been her saving grace. + + +THE END. + + + + + EAGLE SERIES + + A weekly publication devoted to good literature. + December 10, 1907. + + No. 550 + + STREET & SMITH are now the + Owners of all + + CHARLES GARVICE’S + COPYRIGHTED NOVELS + + +We do not need to tell any of our patrons how popular the works of +Charles Garvice are because his name is a byword wherever first-class +novels are read and appreciated. We are pleased, therefore, to announce +the purchase of the plates of the only twenty-five copyrighted stories +by him that we did not have. + +This purchase makes Street & Smith the sole owners and publishers +of all of this celebrated author’s copyrighted stories. This only +emphasizes what has always been a patent fact--that Street & Smith +are the most progressive paper-book publishers in the world, and that +nowhere can the novel reader get so much for his or her money as in the +S. & S. lines. + + + STREET & SMITH, Publishers + New York + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes: + + +Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected (sometimes in +consultation with the original 1898-1899 serial appearance in _Street & +Smith’ New York Weekly_ to ensure accuracy to the author's intent). + +Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by +the transcriber. + +Inconsistent hyphenation of upstairs vs. up-stairs is preserved from +the original text. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76981 *** |