The Secret of Greylands (15 page)

Lord Letchingham came up to his companion.

“Eh, Dempster!” he said, giving him a poke in the ribs. “What have you been doing, you sly dog? I thought you were going to ask about a blacksmith's shop. This”—pointing to the flying girl—“does not look as if that had been your only occupation, eh?”

The man he had called Dempster was still watching Cynthia.

“We were getting on like a house on fire until you began to think of joining us,” he said fatuously. “You frightened my shy bird away, Letchingham. Perhaps she had heard something of your reputation!” with a meaning laugh. “Pretty girl she was too!” as he watched poor Cynthia's heedless progress.

“Who was she, Dempster? You don't put me off with fairy-stories of girls living on the moors. I did not get much of a look at her, but it seemed to me that I had seen her somewhere before.”

“I hadn't,” Mr Dempster remarked sententiously, “and it doesn't seem as if I should again when you are about, old fellow.”

Lord Letchingham appeared by no means ill- pleased at these allusions to his gallantry. He screwed his monocle firmly in his left eye.

“I see why you were so keen on coming over this moor, Dempster. You won't blind me.”

Dempster's face suddenly grew graver.

“It hadn't anything to do with this girl, at any rate; but I do not mind telling you, Letchingham. I dare say you remember a little girl named Meldrum, who used to act at the Alexandra—pretty little
ingénue
parts?”

“Delphine Meldrum? Remember, yes, I should think so!” Lord Letchingham repeated in a tone of interest. “I should think I do! She had the biggest eyes and the brightest smile in town. Why, half the young men were in love with her; she might have had the pick of them. I never heard what became of her.”

“Nobody did,” Dempster said solemnly. “She disappeared, told the managers she was tired of the whole thing, and took herself off, and that was all about it. They were in despair, for Delphine Meldrum was a safe draw, but that didn't mend matters. Well, Letchingham, while I was driving over this moor last week on my way to Glastwick Tower who should I see standing by the roadside but Delphine Meldrum herself.”

Letchingham stared at him incredulously.

“What did you say, man? This was not Delphine Meldrum!”

“No, this girl is younger, and quite a different stamp, but the one I saw last week was little Delphine Meldrum! I recognized her without a shadow of a doubt, and what is more she knew me. She stared at me for a minute, her face turning white, and then, before I could pull up, she had turned and was scudding over the moor like a lapwing, or—or that one!” pointing after Cynthia.

Lord Letchingham's eyes twinkled derisively; he little guessed whose flight he was watching.

“Seems to be a little way they have down here. You were thinking of the Meldrum, Dempster, that was it—I remember hearing that you were numbered among her admirers—and you invested some country girl with her likeness. You would be the first to laugh at yourself if you could see the supposed Delphine Meldrum face to face.”

“Give you my word of honour I hadn't thought of Delphine for years,” Dempster said impressively. “Why, though the face was perfectly familiar, I couldn't even put a name to it at first. No! It was Delphine Meldrum safe enough, but what she is doing down here I can't conceive. I don't mind confessing to you, though, Letchingham, that it was partly on her account that I came across the moor this afternoon. I should be prepared if I saw her again, and I should like to know if she is happy and all that, for—er—Delphine was a nice little girl—a very nice little girl!”

Lord Letchingham laughed disagreeably.

“Oh, don't make excuses, Dempster! I quite understand; and this afternoon when you went off in such a hurry to this girl, you thought—”

“I thought in the distance she might be Delphine,” Dempster acknowledged. “Good-looking little girl she was too, and we were getting on very well, until you came up and scared her away.”

Lord Letchingham caressed his moustache, a smile lurking round the corners of his mouth.

“You see, Dempster, I—”

The chauffeur came up, touching his cap.

“Beg pardon, my lord, but I think I have put matters right, so that we can get back to the Towers!”

“That's all right, then, Brookes,” Letchingham said thankfully. “I was beginning to think it would be a case of walking to Glastwick and sending some one out to you, for I do not see much chance of getting help out here on the moor.”

Meanwhile Cynthia, rushing headlong away, did not heed where her steps were taking her; she only realized that at all hazards she must get away, she must put as much distance as possible between herself and the man whom she dreaded above all things on earth.

After that one backward glance she never turned her head, but hurried along, catching her gown on the gorse, stumbling over the rough ground, her breath coming in long-drawn sobs.

“What is the matter? Where are you going?” It was a man's voice; a man's hand was laid on her arm.

With a shriek of terror the girl tore herself away.

“Let me go! Let me go!” she cried.

“What is wrong? Where are you going?”

Cynthia's heart gave a great throb of relief as she recognized Heriot's voice.

“Oh, there was somebody, a man!” she began. “He—he frightened me!”

Heriot's eyes lighted up with anger.

“A man—where?” he asked laconically, his hand involuntarily gripping the handle of his stick.

“I—do—not—know!” she said, with a great breathless gasp between the words. “I suppose I have come a long way. I seem to have been running—for hours. They—they frightened me so terribly.”

“Poor child!” Heriot's face was very pitiful. After another long look round he drew her trembling hand through his arm. “Lean on me; I will take you to the cottage; you can rest there. You are completely done up.” He guided her carefully.

“I thought you had gone,” Cynthia said, recovering after a few minutes. “The cottage was shut up.

“I have been away,” Heriot said laconically, “and my landlady has been visiting friends. There she is—look.”

Cynthia was surprised to see how near she was to the cottage; in her fright she had run a far greater distance than she had imagined. The elderly woman whom she had seen before sat in the porch knitting; everything looked exactly the same as it had done on the first day of her stay at Greylands.

Heriot unlatched the garden gate and drew her in authoritatively.

“You will be better when you have rested and had a cup of—er—my landlady's tea. Later on I will walk home with you, but in the meantime,” grimly, “I will look round and see whether I can find anything of the gentlemen who have annoyed you.”

Cynthia uttered a cry of alarm; her hot fingers clutched his arm imploringly.

“Oh, you must not—indeed, you must not! Promise me you will not! Besides you will not find them; they—they had a motor. By now they are far away.”

“Well, in that case it is not much good looking for them,” Heriot conceded reluctantly. “Mrs Smithson”—as his landlady, becoming aware of their approach, laid aside her knitting and regarded them with some surprise—“I have brought you this young lady, Miss Hammond, whom you have seen before; she has had a fright and is rather knocked up. You must give her a cup of tea and let her rest quietly a while.”

“Bless you, sir, certainly I will!” Mrs Smithson responded heartily as she rose. “Eh! Dear, dear, miss, you do look bad!” she went on, raising her hands. “It was owing to that that I didn't recognize you at first, for I have often thought of you and wondered if you would come in to see me again. Sit down, miss”—drawing forth her chair—“I will soon bring you a cup of tea.”

Cynthia hesitated and glanced round nervously.

“Would you mind—I would so much rather come indoors if you would let me?” she said pleadingly, her eyes looking big and frightened.

“Come inside and welcome, miss!” Mrs Smithson said. “Myself I am very fond of sitting in the porch; I see all that there is to be seen here anyway, but I know some folks never can abide having their food out of doors.”

Cynthia could not help laughing in the midst of her agitation.

“It is not that at all; but if I sat there and that man came by again to ask the way or anything he would see me.”

“You would be safe enough if he did, miss,” Mrs Smithson remarked reassuringly. “Mr Heriot would take care of that; don't you trouble yourself! Why, I declare you are all of a shiver! You ought to have a dog to go about with you—there's nothing for keeping tramps off like a dog—”

“I think I must get Mr Gillman to let me bring Nero,” Cynthia assented. “But he is a mastiff, so big and strong that I am half afraid of him myself. Now, Spot, the little dog they had when I came—the one that was killed—was a different matter.”

Mrs Smithson looked troubled.

“Is Spot dead, miss?”

“Yes, Mr Heriot and I found him in a wood; somebody had killed him. Did you know Spot, Mrs Smithson?”

The expression of the woman's rosy face changed.

“I have heard of him,” she said evasively. “Please come right in, miss; this is Mr Heriot's own sitting- room, and a pleasant enough room it is, though I suppose I should be the last to say it.”

Cynthia agreed with her unreservedly as she followed her into the room at the right of the door; its raftered ceiling and quaint latticed windows, now thrown wide open, gave it a charming old-world air, while the brightly-polished table and the book-case and the light clean chintz with which the couch and chairs were covered presented an impression of dainty freshness which was delightful to the girl's tired brain.

Mrs Smithson drew the longest, most comfortable arm-chair up beside the open window.

“Sit down, miss, and I'll bring you a cup of good tea; that will be the best thing for you,” she said and lingered a minute, bringing forward a little tea-table and arranging it beside the girl. “You'll excuse me, miss, but I was told that her ladyship had taken a turn for the better. I hope it is true.”

“I do not see much difference, myself, thank you,” Cynthia said listlessly, laying her head back against the cushions, “but she may be a little better perhaps. I know Mr Gillman thinks she is.”

“I am sure I am glad to hear it, miss!”

Intent on her tea-making, the good woman bustled out of the room, and Cynthia was left alone.

At first she was too much exhausted to do anything but lie perfectly still; but after a while she revived, and, with some fear that she might be seen from the road, drew her chair back behind the curtains. Her eyes wandered slowly over the room; finally they rested on a picture over the mantelpiece, and, with a cry of surprise, she rose from her seat and went over to it. It was evidently a portrait of husband and wife, but what startled Cynthia was the feeling that the face of the lady seemed perfectly familiar to her; she looked at it again.

Yes, she had made no mistake; it was the same face, a little older, perhaps, of one of the three sisters portrayed in the large oil-painting in the disused drawing-room at Greylands. Hardly grasping the significance of this discovery, she was still gazing upwards and speculating as to the identity of the tall, dark man pictured behind the lady, with an odd feeling, too, that his features were not entirely unknown to her, when there was a step in the passage behind her.

She turned and saw Heriot standing in the door-way, a curiously embarrassed expression on his face as he watched her. As she met his eyes in a moment enlightenment came to her; she held out her hands; her face paled.

“You—you are not Mr Heriot,” she said with instant conviction. “You are Sir Donald Farquhar!”

T
HE MAN
hesitated; there was a minute's tense silence; then he stepped forward and took the outstretched hands in his.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I am your cousin, Donald Farquhar; I have often wondered that you did not guess it before!”

A great bewilderment was struggling with the comprehension in the girl's eyes.

“I do not understand! Why have you not given your true name? Why have you been hiding like this?”

Farquhar looked down at her gravely.

“I have found it quite impossible to gain access to my aunt; from my correspondence with her solicitors I had learned that they were uneasy about the large demands she had been making for money, and I thought that by staying here under another name I might learn more about her and possibly obtain an interview with her; but I have not succeeded, as you know, so far.”

Cynthia slowly drew her hands from his and went back to her chair. Sir Donald crossed to the mantelpiece and took up his position before it, leaning his broad shoulders against the high wooden ledge and smiling a little as he looked down at the girl's troubled face.

“I have often thought that my anxiety about my aunt must have given me away to you, that you must have guessed my secret.”

Cynthia's eyes drooped.

“No, I never guessed; I never thought of such a thing!”

There was the sound of tea-cups cheerfully rattling on the tray, and Mrs Smithson made her appearance.

“I have made it strong, miss, and I have brought a few of the hot scones that Mr Heriot is so fond of,” she said as she set her load on the table before Cynthia.

“You are very kind,” the girl said absently.

Sir Donald laughed.

“Ah, Mr Heriot is done for!” he said. “Miss Hammond has guessed our secret—half of it, at any rate!”

For a moment Mrs Smithson looked embarrassed; then her countenance broke into smiles.

“Real glad I am to hear of it, Sir Donald!” she said with emphasis. “Now that Miss Hammond knows that we are here in my lady's interests she will help us all she can, I know, in a manner of speaking.”