The Secret of Greylands (13 page)

She was still puzzling over the problem when she came downstairs, and her face looked grave and dissatisfied.

Sybil was eagerly awaiting her in the hall, note in hand.

“What a long time you have been, Cynthia!” she said impatiently. “We shall have to walk very quickly to get back before luncheon.”

The sun was shining brightly; already the hawthorn-blossom was beginning to fade; May was giving place to June. The bright golden blossoms of the furze were investing the moors with a brighter, gayer aspect, and only the pines in the wood, the great firs that surrounded Greylands, looked sombre and gloomy.

Sybil ran about from one clump of gorse to another, uttering little cries of delight as her hands, safely encased in dogskin gloves, plucked great branches of the thorn-covered stems. In vain Cynthia reminded her that she would be wiser to wait until their return; she refused to desist until her arms were full. Then she came back to Cynthia, and taking little heed of the girl's abstraction chattered away with her usual abandon until Cynthia, looking before her, saw the cottage at which she had inquired her way when she was lost on the moor the first day after her coming to Greylands. To her surprise it looked shut up and deserted. She paused involuntarily.

“What is the matter?” Sybil asked crossly, annoyed that her conversation was passing unheeded.

“He has gone, then?” Cynthia said, still standing. “I mean, that is where that man came from that knew Sir Donald Farquhar—Mr Heriot. He must have left.”

“A good thing too!” Sybil said pettishly. “I couldn't bear the man; he was always poking and prying about. He—he frightened me!”

“Frightened you?” Cynthia echoed, turning to look at her companion with astonishment. “What do you mean?”

Sybil pouted and shrugged her shoulders; her eyes looked dark and mutinous.

“Do not ask me questions with that inquisitorial air, Cynthia; I am not in the witness-box! I did not like him. I do not believe he knew Sir Donald Farquhar at all, and sometimes I used to think he had some reason of his own for making so many inquiries about us—that he might be a burglar or something of that sort in disguise.”

“Absurd!” Cynthia said indignantly.

Sybil gave a meaning look.

“Oh, certainly, we know you would not believe any harm of him! But, in your circumstances, do you think so much interest is quite wise?”

“In my circumstances?” Cynthia questioned. “What do you mean? I do not understand!”

Sybil bit her lip; she glanced away in embarrassment; but recovering herself in a moment she looked up.

“In your circumstances, in my circumstances, in anybody's circumstances,” she said innocently, “do you think it is quite discreet to pick up a man of whom one knows nothing, Cynthia dear?”

T
HE OFFICES
of Messrs Bolt & Barsly were situated within the gloomy purlieus of Lincoln's Inn; the private room of Mr Barsly, the active partner of the firm, was regarded as a sort of Holy of holies. Thither clients who had made appointments with the principal were solemnly conducted; a very bold man must he be, or very highly placed in the world, who ventured, without having previously announced his coming, to demand an interview with the head of the firm. Yet one such courageous individual there was on a morning in early June. The impropriety of his request was made evident to him by the hesitation of the clerk who admitted him.

“Mr Barsly is extremely busy this morning, sir. If you have no appointment I am afraid it is useless,” the solemn and bespectacled youth observed with an air of reproof.

His manner changed to some extent when he saw the name on the stranger's card; and he looked with increased respect at this muscular, broad-shouldered man, whose tanned skin, combined with his freedom of bearing, seemed to bespeak a life spent in the open.

“I will inquire, sir, if you will step this way,” he said as he ushered the visitor into the dreary little waiting-room already occupied by a couple of impatient clients.

Mr Barsly was sitting at the writing-table in his private room, apparently engaged in paring his nails, when the clerk knocked at the door.

“Didn't I tell you that I was not to be interrupted for an hour, Williams?” he asked with some natural irritation. “I wish you would endeavour to remember what I say to you!”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the solemn youth responded, much abashed, “but the hour was nearly up, and I thought perhaps the gentleman—”

“Thought, thought!” Mr Barsly responded pettishly. “I wish you would do as you are told without thinking!”

He caught up the card the clerk had placed respectfully at his elbow.

“Sir Donald Farquhar!” he read aloud. Then his expression changed. “Ahem! I don't know that you have been so far wrong, Williams,” he said generously. “Ask Sir Donald to come up.”

He was absorbed in his papers on the desk before him when Farquhar was ushered in.

“Ah, Sir Donald,” he said, as he rose, “I am exceedingly glad that you have come in this morning, though you find me overwhelmed by the pressure of business!”

“I am very sorry to interrupt,” Sir Donald said as he took the chair opposite and deposited his hat and gloves on a neighbouring table, “but I am becoming increasingly anxious about my aunt. As I told you in my letter, I have been quite unable to see her or to obtain any answer to my letters; and it seems to me that it is time, considering how her property is being dealt with, that some more definite information was obtained.”

Mr Barsly bowed.

“Quite so, quite so!” he said blandly. “We were precisely of your opinion, Sir Donald; I say ‘were' advisedly, for having occasion to dispatch Mr Fowler, our managing clerk, early this week to Glastwick we instructed him to go over to Greylands and insist, if it were any way possible, on seeing Lady Hannah Gillman herself. He only returned last night, and his account of the interview—”

“He saw her?” Sir Donald interrupted eagerly. “What did she say? What did he think of her?”

“Certainly he saw her, Sir Donald, and received some very definite instructions with regard to her property. As far as Fowler could judge, she was quite as well as could be expected; but I think it would be better for you to hear his account and to judge for yourself.”

Receiving a gesture of acquiescence he spoke down the tube, and in a minute there was a deferential knock at the door.

Sir Donald looked up with interest as Mr Fowler entered—a tall, reedy-looking man with a prematurely bald head, and weak red-rimmed eyes protected by blue glasses; his appearance hardly augured an unusual amount of intelligence, Sir Donald fancied.

“This is Sir Donald Farquhar,” Mr Barsly began, with a comprehensive wave of the hand. “He is naturally anxious to hear your account of the visit to Lady Hannah Gillman.”

“Ah, yes, I quite understand!” Mr Fowler blinked benevolently at Sir Donald over the tops of his glasses. “As far as I can judge, Lady Hannah appeared to be as well as can be expected from the nature of her attack. She is quite helpless, but I understand from Mr Gillman that definitely favourable symptoms have made themselves apparent lately, and he is not without hope that she may yet be restored to a certain amount of activity.”

“She talked to you—she spoke to you of business matters?” Sir Donald interposed. “Did her mind appear to have been in any way affected by her illness?”

“Decidedly not!” Mr Fowler answered impressively. “She gave me the impression of being quite clear-headed, and as being, if I may say so, a lady with a very decided will of her own, whom it would be no easy matter to coerce.”

Sir Donald nodded as he leant forward and gazed fixedly at the silver knob of his cane.

“So I should have thought,” he assented. “But some information I received a short time ago has inclined me to the opinion that she is not a free agent—that her husband is keeping her in a species of captivity.”

Mr Fowler looked at him for a moment in astonishment; then he shook his head decidedly.

“I should say that your informant has made some strange mistake, sir. As far as I could judge, Mr Gillman appeared to be devoted to his wife; and I should take her to be the leading spirit of the two. It seemed to me that he was anxious to please her and to carry out her directions in every way within his power.”

“Did you see her alone?” Sir Donald asked abruptly. “Without Mr Gillman, I mean.”

“Certainly, certainly! Mr Gillman went out of the room while she gave me her directions with regard to the business we have in hand for her. He was most particular that there should be no suspicion of his influence; in fact he told me privately that he was not in accordance with the course Lady Hannah had pursued lately, but had remonstrated with her in vain,” Mr Fowler said.

It was quite evident that Mr Gillman had made an extremely good impression on Messrs Bolt & Barsly's clerk.

There was a pause. Sir Donald sat with his eyes fixed on the pattern of the Turkey-carpet at his feet; his face looked gloomy and dissatisfied. Mr Barsly restlessly turned over the pile of papers before him, as if to intimate to his client that time was passing. Mr Fowler gazed inquiringly at his principal.

At length Sir Donald broke the silence.

“Did it strike you that the household and the whole mode of living at Greylands were exceedingly curious for a woman in my aunt's position?”

Mr Fowler pushed his spectacles on to his forehead; seen without them his pale-blue eyes looked more than ever weak and watery.

“Lady Hannah appeared to me to have every attention, every luxury even,” he said, embarrassed. “But now that you put the question to me, Sir Donald, her income would warrant a more expensive style of living. Still, there are people who prefer—”

Mr Barsly gathered together several envelopes and now fastened an elastic band round them with a snap.

“One minute, Sir Donald,” he interrupted suavely. “As you know from our correspondence with you, for some time past we have been seriously uneasy about Lady Hannah; the way in which she was disposing of her alienable property caused us some considerable anxiety, and there was something about the tone of the letter in which she bade us prepare a deed of gift of the Greylands property to her cousin, Lady Letchingham, as well as in the tone of the letter in which she returned the deed duly executed, which made us feel that some inquiry must be made as to her health and the general condition in which she was living. No doubt the attack of paralysis which must have been impending accounts for much, and since Mr Fowler's visit we have felt—”

“Deed of gift of Greylands to Lady Letchingham!” Sir Donald interrupted. “I had no idea—”

Mr Barsly coughed.

“It may be indiscreet to take you thus far into our confidence, Sir Donald, but—well, it is done now. Lady Hannah gave us instructions that the deed of gift was to be forwarded to Lady Letchingham when she herself should direct, but from what Mr Fowler gathered in his interview, Lady Hannah has been seriously considering revoking the deed. The unfortunate differences which have arisen between Lord and Lady Letchingham seem to have had the effect of incensing her against her cousin. I understand she expressed herself strongly on the subject.”

“I did not know any differences had arisen between Lord and Lady Letchingham,” Sir Donald remarked indifferently. “It is early for that, surely.”

Mr Barsly nodded in a melancholy fashion.

“It is indeed, but there the matter stands. As you are a relative, Sir Donald, there is no harm in telling you what is leaking out to the world now—that Lady Letchingham has positively declined to live with her husband.”

“Has she?” Evidently Sir Donald was not interested in Lady Letchingham's proceedings. “I do not know anything of her. My aunt has two young cousins staying with her now.”

Mr Barsly flashed a lightning glance at his subordinate; in his absorption the signal escaped Sir Donald.

Mr Fowler coughed.

“So I understood. I saw one of them—Miss—er—Cynthia; she appeared to be most attentive to Lady Hannah.”

“Ah, yes.” Sir Donald rose. “Well, I suppose nothing more can be done at present. It seems useless for me to write to my aunt, but I warn you I shall not be satisfied until I see her myself.”

“It is very sad,” Mr Fowler remarked in his mild, compassionate tones, “to see anyone reduced to so helpless a state as Lady Hannah. She is unable to move hand or foot. I saw how unhappy she looked when she spoke of her inability to write, and I thought that her pretty white hands, lying so still and useless, were a most melancholy sight.” A slight smile curved Sir Donald's lips.

“I am afraid you are somewhat embroidering the truth now, Mr Fowler. As my aunt's hands have been crippled by rheumatism for years—sad, as I am sure it is, to see them helpless—they can hardly look either pretty or white, to quote your description.”

Mr Fowler gazed at him in bewilderment.

“Lady Hannah's hands were smooth and white,” he affirmed positively. “I thought how soft and unwrinkled they looked for an—er—elderly lady's. There was no sign of rheumatism about them—in their appearance, at any rate.”

“Hands often alter in illness,” Mr Barsly remarked didactically. “No doubt Lady Hannah is considerably paler after this long confinement in bed, and doubtless that has affected her hands also.”

“Her knuckles were permanently enlarged. They could not alter,” Sir Donald contradicted. “Well, I do not know what the secret of that strange household at Greylands may be. I suppose, however, that if my aunt is comfortable it does not concern me. Still, I shall not feel convinced that it is so until I have seen.”

“Oh, my dear sir, I do not think there is any further cause for uneasiness—I do not indeed,” Mr Barsly said, as he rose. “We, as you know, were, like yourself, inclined to be suspicious with regard to Mr Gillman's proceedings. The whole circumstances of the marriage, taken in conjunction with other things, were so extraordinary that we felt compelled to exercise perhaps an undue amount of precaution. In fact, I may tell you that Mr Fowler's journey North was undertaken principally on that account; but as his report was of so satisfactory a nature we see no reason for further misgivings, and are very glad to acknowledge that in the past we were mistaken. Still, it was a fault on the right side, Sir Donald, a fault on the right side!”