CHAPTER XXI.
I sat down by the table as soon as Sarah had left the schoolroom, and rested my head in my hands. I did not want to cry, though a few tears trickled down between my fingers at the thought that I should not see Laurence again before he went away; but I wanted to put the events of the evening together and find out what they meant. There was only one conclusion to come to: Sarah had deliberately prevented my meeting him. The ring I had heard had been Laurence’s; and, after sending him away by means of a falsehood, she had had another ready for me when I asked who it was. “Gregson’s boy”! I had thought it strange at the time that the carpenter’s son should come to the front door, and now I felt sure that he had not been there at all.
I looked again at Laurence’s note. He had called at the house at seven, he said. Now I distinctly remembered that, after I had heard the bell and met Sarah, I came into the schoolroom and found that by the clock it was half-past six. I had sat there until twenty minutes past seven, and during that time there had been no other ring at the hall door. And I had noticed how very dark it was getting; then, just as I was opening the window to go out, Sarah had come in and asked me to help her with the store-list, and I had been free in a very short time; yet on my arrival at my “nest,” the church clock had struck eight.
Sarah must have put the schoolroom clock back.
I had found her just now turning from the mantelpiece, and I could not doubt that, her object being gained, she had been putting the clock right again. This malicious persecution frightened me. Was I safe in the same house with a woman who would take so much trouble merely to prevent my having a last interview with my lover?
There had been a matter-of-fact deliberateness in the way she had answered me about the bell and asked me to do the list which had the effect of alarming me still more than the savage manner in which she used to look at and speak to me when she was jealous of some new proof of the consideration with which I was treated at the Alders. This was Wednesday, and Mr. Rayner would probably not be back before Saturday. What new proof of animosity would she manage to give me in those three days? That she would not let this opportunity of showing her rooted dislike to me go by I felt sure. I remembered how earnestly she had begged to stay, and wondered whether the wish for a chance of playing me some unkind trick had had anything to do with it; for Sarah was not likely to have forgiven me for having been the cause of her threatened dismissal. It was of no use to speculate upon what she might do; if she grew too intolerable, I could telegraph to Mr. Rayner, and he would find some means of bringing her to reason.
I turned again to Laurence’s note to divert my thoughts from her, and wondered why, in those few hurried lines to me, he had thought it worth while to mention that he saw two men in a cart outside the stable-gate when he left me on the previous night. What meaning could the incident have to him? It had one to me, certainly; but then it was because I had seen Tom Parkes bring in the little portmanteau, and then return across the lawn with Sarah. The mention of this cart revived my curiosity regarding the past night’s adventure. I could make nothing of it myself; but I thought I would write to Laurence and tell him what I had seen; and, if he knew anything more, my information might lead him to an explanation of the whole occurrence. I was still staring at the note when Sarah came in again, this time to bring me my candle, an office she seldom undertook. I saw a look of disappointment and alarm come over her face as her quick eyes fell on my note, and when I got upstairs I took the precaution to learn the address I was to write to by heart before enclosing this farewell note with Laurence’s first, which I still wore round my neck.
The next morning I received a letter from Mr. Rayner. He had been to the Gaiety Theatre on the very night of his arrival in town, and sent me a crumpled programme of the performance, with some comments which did not interest me very much, as I had not seen any of the actors and actresses he mentioned, having been only once to the theatre in my life. I laughed to myself at Laurence’s fancy that he had seen Mr. Rayner in the dress of a navvy at the station that night. The letter, which had been written at four o’clock on Wednesday, said further that he was going that evening to the Criterion Theatre, where he hoped to be better entertained. He said he had written to Mrs. Rayner, and sent his love to Haidee by her, but that he enclosed a second portion to me to give her, as she was not well. Then he gave me a message to deliver which I would much rather not have been entrusted with, and at breakfast I said to Sarah—
“Mr. Rayner has sent a message to you in a letter I have just received from him. He says, ‘Tell Sarah not to forget the work she has to do in my absence.’ ”
As I looked up after reading this out to her, I saw that her face had turned quite livid; the old hatred of me gleamed in her eyes, and I wished Mr. Rayner had written to her himself, instead of making me deliver a message which appeared so distasteful to her.
She said, “Very well, miss;” and I wondered what work it was.
I spent most of the day by Haidee’s bedside. I did not see Mrs. Rayner, for she appeared neither at breakfast nor at dinner, and to my inquiries Sarah gave the same answer as before—that she was not well enough to leave her room. She could not even see any one either, Sarah said, when I asked if I might read to her; and I was obliged to see my hopes of gaining her sympathy fade away, and to recognize the fact that either she would not or Sarah would not allow me a chance of breaking down the barrier of reserve between us. I could let her see that I had not forgotten her, though; and, seized by a happy thought, I went in search of an old knife and a basket, and went into the garden to gather her some flowers.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon; the leaves and grass were still wet, for it had been raining hard all the morning, and the mist was rising already from the marsh. There were scarcely any flowers left now, but by wandering into remote nooks of the garden, and by stepping in among the plants and spying out every blossom hidden under the leaves, I managed at last to collect enough for a very fair October bouquet. I took them into the house, and it suddenly occurred to me that they would make a better display in a large wire-covered vase that stood on a whatnot in the drawing-room. So I ran in there, with my frock still tucked up, the gardening-knife in one dirty hand and my basket of flowers on my arm. I had my hand still on the handle of the door, when I saw there was a gentleman in there, standing at the window, looking out into the garden. I slipped back hastily, hoping to escape before he could catch sight of me; but he turned, crossed the room quickly, and stopped me.
“Miss Christie!”
It was Mr. Carruthers.
“They told me you were out.”
Sarah’s work, thought I.
“No; I was only in the garden.”
There was no help for my appearance now, so I quietly took the pin out of my frock and let it down while he went on talking.
“I am very, very glad to see you. You are looking very well. I am afraid,” said he, still holding my hand, “you have not been missing any of us much.”
“Well, you see I had known the people there only two days,” said I seriously.
“ ‘The people there’! As if I cared how little you missed ‘the people there’! When I say you have not been missing any of us, I mean you have not been missing me.”
“But I haven’t known you longer than the others,” said I, smiling.
“But you have known me so much better than the others,” said he deprecatingly.
“I am not quite sure of that.”
“Didn’t you talk to me more than to the others?”
“Yes.”
“And walk with me oftener than with the others?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t you like me better than the others?”
“I think I did—yes, I did.”
“All that is very tepid. I can’t think why you don’t like me, when I like you so much.”
“Oh, you did not understand me, Mr. Carruthers! I do like you very much; but—”
“There—you have spoilt it all with that unkind ‘but’! Don’t you think me handsome? I am considered one of the handsomest men about town, I assure you.”
“Not really?”
This slipped out quickly, for I thought he was in fun. I afterwards found out, to my surprise, that it was true; but I did not learn it then, for he looked very much amused, and said—
“That is blow number two; but I am not going to be crushed. Don’t you think me good?”
“Oh, no!”
“Why not, Miss Christie?” said he, pretending to be in despair.
My chief reason was that, if he had been very “good,” he would not have made Lady Mills angry with me by taking me on the river late at night; for he had shown later that he knew it was not considered right. But it would have seemed ungenerous to recall that when it had all passed over; so I only said—
“I know from the way they talked to you and of you that they did not think you very good, and that you did not wish to be thought so.”
“But I am going to reform after what you said on Sunday.”
“Oh, no, you are not!” said I, shaking my head. “You say so only because it amuses you to see how much you can make me believe of the things you tell me.”
“Do you judge all the people you know as severely as you do me, Miss Christie?”
“Yes, quite,” said I gravely.
“Oh—er—the gentleman who gave you the red rose, for instance?”
He said this in a mock-bashful tone, looking at the carpet, as if ashamed to meet my eyes. I could not help getting red, and I think he knew it without looking up.
“Or—or perhaps he—never does anything wrong?”
“Oh, yes, he does, Mr. Carruthers!” said I, with a bright idea in my head—he had been laughing at me long enough, I thought. “He did very wrong in thinking he need be jealous of any of the gentlemen I met at Denham Court.”
Mr. Carruthers raised his head and looked straight at me. I am not sure that he was not a little annoyed as well as amused, though he laughed very good-temperedly.
“I will never make love to you any more, you ungrateful girl!” said he.
“Make love! Do you call that making love?” said I, laughing.
“It is not the best I can do by any means; but I shall be very glad to show you—”
“You need not take that trouble, thank you; I will take your word for it,” said I, laughing again.
I had learnt to answer him back in his own way; and I think he was a little surprised at the progress I was making.
“You are too quick of fence for me,” said he, shaking his head. “Well, don’t you want to know what has been going on at Denham Court?” he asked rather suddenly, in a different tone.
“Oh, yes! But there has not been time for much to happen. I left there on Monday, and this is only Thursday.”
“There has been time for a very serious misfortune to happen, for all that,” said he gravely. “Last night Denham Court was broken into, and Lady Mills and Mrs. Cunningham and Mrs. Carew and some of the other ladies had all their most valuable jewelry stolen; and a quantity of gold plate was taken too.”
We had been standing by the window all this time, I playing with the flowers in my basket. I went on mechanically twisting a chrysanthemum in my fingers after he had finished telling me this startling story, but I did not know what I was doing.
“Last night, did you say?” said I at last, in a frightened whisper.
“Yes, last night. Sit down,” said he kindly, putting me into a chair. “This seems to have quite overwhelmed you. Why, child, your very lips are white! Let me ring for some—”
“No, no!” I interrupted, starting up. “I am quite well; I am not going to faint. Don’t—don’t ring. Tell me all about it quickly, please. When did you find it out? Have they caught the thieves? Do they know—”
“Stop—I can’t tell you all at once. The thieves have not been caught yet, and we don’t know who they are. The robbery was discovered this morning.”
“This morning! Who discovered it? How?”
“Now don’t get excited, and I will tell you all about it. This morning a ladder was found lying underneath Lady Mills’s dressing-room window, which had been opened by smashing one of the panes from the outside. It was Lady Mills’s maid who first gave the alarm by a cry at sight of the open window when she went into the dressing room this morning, after calling her mistress. Lady Mills ran in; they looked out together, and saw the ladder lying underneath. The dressing-room has two doors; the one which does not lead into the bedroom had been unlocked and left open by the thief, to pass into the house by. But, at first sight, nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The dressing-case was locked and in its place; a strong tin case in which Lady Mills kept the greater part of her jewels was still in the locked-up wardrobe. But, on moving it, they found that the lock had been burst open, and it was entirely empty. Jewels, cases and all, had disappeared. By this time the head-gardener had come into the house saying that he hoped all was right, but that he had gone to the tool-house in the morning with one of the under-gardeners, a man named Parkes—”
“Tom Parkes?”
“Yes. He keeps the key of the tool-house. And they had found the door forced in, and a file and one of the ladders gone. Of course the alarm spread quickly all over the house; and then the other losses were discovered one by one. There is the mysterious part of it. Everything had been done so methodically and so neatly, even to locked doors being found still locked, that it was not until after careful examination that the stolen things were missed. Lady Mills and Mrs. Carew found their dressing-cases locked; but, when they opened them, each found that the most valuable of the contents were gone. The butler and Sir Jonas himself examined the plate-chest together. That was locked too, and, on first opening it, they congratulated themselves on its having escaped. But, on removing that part of it which is in constant use, they found that the gold plate, which is used only now and then, and some solid silver cups and candlesticks had been taken. But the loss which has caused the greatest sensation is Mrs. Cunningham’s. She came into the breakfast-room quite white and scarcely able to speak, with some pebbles and a piece of cotton-wool in her hands. She declares that she carried about on her person, sewn up in wash-leather and cotton-wool, a very valuable set of diamonds and cat’s-eyes; that it was not until long after she discovered her other losses that she cut open the leather, just to make sure that her greatest treasure was safe; that she found the jewels gone and the pebbles she produced in their place. The poor woman was so hysterical that it was a long time before she could tell us all about it. She declares that she slept with them under her pillow, and that no one in the world knew where she kept them, for that she never mentioned the fact to any one—”
“Oh, but that is not quite true, Mr. Carruthers! For she told me.”
“So she said,” said he, looking at me steadily. “But you could never have repeated such a thing to any one who could make a wrong use of the knowledge.”
“Oh, no! The only person I spoke of it to was Mr. Rayner.”
“Mr. Rayner!” said he quickly. “You could not have chosen a worse person to entrust the secret to, I am afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, he is the most talkative man I know. I have met him at Newmarket several times—a bright amusing fellow enough, but the last man to whom I should tell anything I did not wish to have repeated for the amusement of the next person he met.”
“Oh, but he would not repeat a thing like that!” said I earnestly. “He scolded me for telling him, and said such confidences should never be repeated, no matter to whom.”
“That’s all right,” said he, much relieved. “Then I shall tell Mrs. Cunningham you didn’t mention it to any one. The poor woman is half out of her mind; it was she who sent me over here to-day, to find out whether you had spoken about it in the presence of any one who could use the knowledge. For my part, I thought it very likely she had only imagined she had spoken to you about it; but I wanted an excuse for coming; so I gained my object, and put her under an obligation at the same time.”
I did not pay any attention to the implied flattery in these words; I was too much interested in the robbery.
“And is no one suspected?” I asked, with trembling lips.
“At present we know nothing, and we suspect a different person every minute. The robbery had been so well arranged, and was carried out with such discrimination—for nothing but the best of everything was taken—that at first the servants were suspected of complicity. But my man Gordon, who has no end of sense, suggested that it was only fair to them all to have their boxes examined at once. This was done, but no trace of anything was found. Of course that does not prove that they may not have given information to the thieves, whoever they were. There has been a gang of navvies at work on the railway close by for the past fortnight, and a hat belonging to one of them was found in the garden, and has been identified already; but it seems that the friends of the man it belongs to can prove that he passed the night drunk in the village. So at present we know absolutely nothing. Gordon told me privately that he doesn’t believe either the servants or the navvies have had anything to do with it, and he pointed out the resemblance between this and a robbery which took place some time ago at the house of another of my friends, Lord Dalston, whom I had been staying with not long before. He believes that it is the work of a regular jewel-robber, and that very likely he got a discharged servant to supply him with information. I pointed out to him that no servant who had long left could have given him such precise details as he seems to have had concerning the jewels of the ladies who were only visiting there, for instance. But I could not convince him. As for Mrs. Cunningham’s, that really seems marvellous, because she is a cautious sort of woman. I suppose her maid somehow found out the secret, and then told it to—Heaven knows whom.”
“I suppose so,” said I mechanically.
I was trying to put together what I had just heard and what I had already known. Mr. Carruthers rose.
“I need not trouble Mrs. Rayner at all now that I have seen you,” said he.
“Mrs. Rayner!” I repeated, in the same mechanical stupid way.
“Yes. When the servant told me you were out, she said I could see Mrs. Rayner. I did not want to disturb her, knowing that she has the reputation of being an invalid. But she insisted.”
“Wait one moment,” said I, as he took my hand. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Carruthers, that the robbery took place last night?”
Before I uttered the last words, his eyes suddenly left my face, and were fixed on some object behind me.
I turned, and saw in the doorway Mrs. Rayner, paler and more impassive than ever, and Sarah. All the doors at the Alders opened noiselessly, and they had overheard me. And, as I looked at Sarah’s face, my heart beat faster with fear and with suspicion become certainty, for I knew that I was on the right track.