Kitabı oku: «The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance», sayfa 16

The old lady looked at May again. She smiled, but there seemed to be something over-eager in this young girl.

"May I ask, do you belong to London?"

"Yes."

"Ah, I am glad of that. Then you will perhaps know the name of this gentleman. He is not the rector of our parish, but one of the Canons of St. Paul's."

She handed the girl a card.

"I do not know him," answered May, wondering what a Canon of St. Paul's could have to do with the matter. "I know his name very well. Is he a relative of yours?"

"No, my dear, no relative, but a good kind friend of my late husband. The Canon has done a great deal for me, and among other things he allows me to refer anyone to him who may want to know anything about me."

"It is very kind of him," said May, not knowing what to say, what was meant.

"So, my dear," said the old lady, "you may call upon him or write to him, as you please."

The widow was plainly perplexed by May's rejoinder.

"I!" cried May; "I call on him!"

"Yes, my dear. I suppose there will be plenty of time before you give me the pleasure of your company permanently. When do you wish the room to be ready for you?"

The girl did not yet understand what the old lady meant by reference to the Canon of St. Paul's; but she had a sickening sense that something was going wrong.

"If-if," she faltered, "you would let me, I should like to stay this evening. I-I am anxious to get some place this evening, now."

She felt her throat quite dry, and her voice husky,

"This evening, my dear; this evening! That is rather sudden. I am not sure we could manage that. And where are your things?"

"What things?" asked May, in a whisper.

"Your luggage, my dear."

"I have none."

"Well, then, give me the name and address of some of your friends in London."

"I cannot."

"Oh dear, dear, dear! I am very sorry, truly sorry for you, my child. But you have friends in London?" said the old lady, in a kindly tone.

May placed her hand on the back of the chair, and rose with unsteady limbs.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in a low broken voice, "I now understand what you mean. I have no luggage, and can give no reference. Thank you for your kindness. Good-evening!" and before the old lady had time to rise or speak, May had reached the outer door and gained the street.

"There must be something wrong," said the old lady to herself, "or she would not have been in such a hurry to run away. If she had only waited and told me all, I might have done something for her. She is young and very pretty. It's a thousand pities, whatever it is. I'm sorry she did not wait another minute. She took my breath away when she stood up. I thought she was going to make a scene. I did not intend her to go. I only wanted the address to write to her friends. There's something wrong, and it's a thousand pities, a thousand pities."

CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE TRACK

The Duke passed quickly by Anne in the little hall, and went into the room where Miss Traynor sat in the dim light of a single lamp. As he entered, she had been sitting with her head bowed upon her chest. She had not uttered an exclamation on reading Marion's brief note. She had not wept a tear since. It was now ten o'clock. Half an hour ago that note had come. It lay on the table beside her. She had put on her spectacles to read it, and had forgotten to take them off. As the young man entered the room, she looked up.

"Miss Traynor! Miss Traynor, what is this Anne tells me? Is it true Marion has left the house?"

"What?" said she.

"Anne tells me that Marion has left the house, and that you do not know where she is, and that she said she is not coming back."

"Anne told me she was not in the house, and I got that note a while ago."

She pointed to the table.

He took up the note and read it. Then he sat down without a word, and for a long time there was unbroken silence.

When Miss Traynor saw her niece's writing, addressed to herself on a stamped envelope which had come by the post, all her faculties had been suddenly stimulated into extraordinary activity. She had had, ever since his visit earlier in the day, a dull misgiving that something had gone wrong, or was going wrong. The sight of her niece's handwriting instantly confirmed her suspicions. She tore the letter open, and in a minute had mastered its contents. The letter was very brief, and ran as follows:

"My own dearest Aunt,

"I have all along been terrified by the changes which have taken place in his fortunes. I am, as you know, only a poor plain girl, with no pretensions to blood or family. It is therefore impossible for anything more to be between him and me. I have made my mind up never to see him again. I am sure he would not stay away for my telling him. I have no choice but to go and hide myself until he has grown wise enough to forget.

"Your always most loving niece,

"Marion."

When Miss Traynor had finished reading, the extraordinary mental activity which had sprung up in her died out, and she sank into a dull stupid state, in which there was nothing clear before her mind. For years she had been an invalid incapable of active bodily exercise. She now found herself alone in a house with her servant, and the knowledge that, as far as she might be able to do anything, she might as well be dead. Marion had fled. She could not move, and even if she were suddenly restored to health and strength, she had so long been unaccustomed to cross the threshold of her own door, that she would have been quite helpless. All this rushed into her mind in a moment, while the mind continued still active. Then the activity was exhausted, her chin dropped upon her chest and until Cheyne entered the room she had had no clear image of anything in her mind.

He broke the silence at last.

"Miss Traynor, this is dreadful. This is awful. I too got a letter from her this evening. It contains something of the substance of yours, but it did not hint at her leaving home. When did she go out?"

He was looking vacantly as he spoke at the feeble old woman before him.

"I do not know. Anne can tell you I daresay."

Anne was called. She thought Miss Durrant had gone out a little after five. She could not say exactly.

"There is not a moment to be lost. She must be found to-night," said he, as the servant withdrew.

"It would be well she was found to-night," said Miss Traynor mechanically. She did not seem to know what his words meant-of whom he was speaking. After a moment's pause, she added: "I think she will come back to-night, for she did not even take a shawl with her; and you know, Charlie, it will be very cold soon, won't it?"

He was greatly shocked at this speech. She had never called him Charlie before, and what she said about the shawl plainly showed her mind was unhinged. It was obvious to him that he could do no good by staying. Without saying another word, beyond a formal "Good-bye for the present; I may see you later on," he rose, and went to the door.

"Any time you come I will see you," said the poor invalid quietly, "for I intend waiting up until my child comes home. I think we ought to have a fire for her when she comes in; you know, Charlie, she did not take even a shawl with her, and a place always looks twice more like home when there's a fire in the room we love best."

As he was going out he called Anne, and told her to remain in the room with her mistress until he returned.

"If Miss Traynor refuses to go to bed, as I fear she will, you must sleep in a chair. I'll be back as soon as ever I can. I have a cab at the door. I'll leave it there; and if you want a doctor, or anything else, you can send the cab."

Then he hurried out, told the cabman to wait at the disposal of the servant, and walked off in search of another. He sprang into a hansom, and gave the order-"Scotland Yard."

He did not remain long in the Yard. Once more jumping into the hansom, he drove to Charing Cross, and entered a court, where he remained a short time. Then he went to Finsbury Square. He drove to a few other places that night, and at twelve o'clock he dismissed the hansom in Piccadilly.

"I do not know what more I can do to-night. The police and every inquiry-office in London are on the alert now. It is too late for the morning papers. What else can I do? Nothing, as far as I can see, but go back and see how the poor old lady is. There will be no news for a few hours, at the earliest."

He set off to walk to Tenby Terrace. He had nothing to do but to kill' time, and walking killed more time than driving. To the police and at the private inquiry-offices he had given the name of Ashington, and his address at the hotel. They had all promised to send the first intelligence there at the earliest moment. His orders had been, that if any news came, and the messenger at the hotel found him out, the messenger was to wait.

It was one o'clock when he got back to the Knightsbridge house. The cab was still standing at the door. He knocked, and was let in by Anne. There was no news. No one had come near the house since. Miss Traynor had not stirred. She had refused to go to bed up to this. She had, Anne believed, dozed in her chair. Anne had slept a few minutes.

He said he would go in and see Miss Traynor.

"Miss Traynor," said he, as he entered the room, "I have run back to say that I have been round to all the offices" – he did not mention what kind of offices-"and have given full description and instructions; and you may rely on it that, if Marion does not return here to-night, we shall know where she is, and fetch her home in the morning."

Miss Traynor had not been asleep; she was just in the same state as he had left her-half-stunned. She said:

"It is very good of you, Charlie. I am sure she will come home some time to-night. I'll sit up for her-I'll sit up; I am not sleepy. You know I often lie awake half the night. I shouldn't mind it if she had only taken a shawl-ever so light a shawl."

He told Anne, if Miss Durrant came back during the night, to send the cab instantly to his hotel.

Although he had walked a good deal that day, and had not yet fully recovered from the effects of that swim, he resolved to walk back to his hotel. All that could be done had been done, and until morning, at all events, there was nothing for him to do but wait, and the best place for waiting was at his hotel, whither the first news would be carried.

His mind was highly strung, and he went at a quick rate. He had not yet given himself time to think; he did not mean to give himself time to think. He had only one thing to do now, and that was to find May. Until she was found, all his thoughts should be centred in one idea; there would be plenty of time for thought afterwards.

He had no sensation of tenderness or love toward May in his thoughts while thinking of her flight or recovery; he felt as though he had no personal interest in the pursuit. That girl must be brought back to her home at any expense, at any risk; and he meant to bring her back, though he carried her by main force, and broke the law in so doing. To her aunt's house he would bring her, as sure as he had carried that line to that yacht. He had risked his life to save life at Silver Bay; he would risk his life, and all he was worth, to place this girl once more under her aunt's roof. When she was safe there, then he might think of other things, such as his love for her, himself, and so on.

No messenger awaited him at the hotel; of course he could hardly hope for news yet. He left word with the hall-porter that if anyone called for Mr. Ashington, Mr. Ashington might be found in his own room.

He had engaged a suite of rooms on the first floor, and to the sitting-room of this he went. He never felt less inclined to sleep in all his life; all his mind and body tingled for something to do, and yet he could do nothing but wait.

Miss Traynor never lay down that night, but sat in her chair with her chin sunken on her breast, and her dull lifeless eyes fixed on the dimly-illumined carpet of the little sitting-room which had for so many years been brightened by the young girl's presence and cheered by her voice.

By six o'clock in the morning no fewer than four clues had been reported to the Duke; but as each one came from a different office, and each pointed to a different point of the compass as the line of flight, and as none was declared to be thoroughly satisfactory, there was nothing to be done but to wait still further.

At seven o'clock breakfast was brought to Cheyne in his private room. He ate with appetite, and when he had finished, lit a cigar. He was engaged in business of importance, which required all his faculties.

At half-past eight Mr. Bracken was announced. Cheyne told the waiter to show the gentleman up instantly.

Bracken was the detective into whose hands he had confided the Scotland Yard branch of the inquiry. Bracken was a tall, lank, solemn-looking man, dressed in black. Only that there was no appearance of relaxation or festivity about him, he would have looked like a clergyman on his holiday tour.

"Well, Mr. Bracken," said Cheyne, after he had motioned the detective to a chair, "any news?"

"Yes, sir. We have news of the first importance."

"No clue, I hope, Mr. Bracken."

"No, sir; not a clue this time. Clues are very good things when you have nothing to go on. We're bound to have a clue in a few hours, it's the privilege of our profession."

"I know," said Cheyne, "a kind of perquisite."

"In a way, sir, a kind of perquisite; or, if you like it better, the flash note by which we work our confidence-trick."

"Well, Mr. Bracken, you are very candid, and from your candour I assume you have a genuine note for me in this case."

The detective took out a large pocket-book, and having drawn a letter from it, handed the letter to Cheyne, saying:

"That's a genuine note, sir."

Cheyne took the letter out of the envelope and read:

"8, Garthorne Street,

"Kennington Road.

"Sir,

"I am uneasy, and cannot rest without writing you a line. I let lodgings in this house to ladies only. This evening a young lady, a little under the middle height, and of very good figure, dark eyes, brown hair, and pretty expression, called and wanted me to accommodate her. She had no luggage, and when I asked her for the address of some friend in London, she seemed much disturbed, told me she could not give it to me, and before I could say or do anything, she hastened out of the room and house. She was in deep distress; and ever since she went I feel as though she must have left her friends, and that in all likelihood they will make inquiries after her. In case you should wish for anything I can tell you of her, I shall be only too glad to give you all information I have.

"Yours faithfully,

"Harriet Dumaresq.

"The Chief Inspector of Police,

"Scotland Yard."

"You have a cab at the door?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the photograph I gave you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then; come along at once. We will drive direct there without loss of a moment."

When they arrived, Mrs. Dumaresq was up, and would see them immediately. In a few minutes she came into the room. Bracken explained the object of their visit, and showed a photograph of May, which the old lady at once recognised as that of the young lady who wished to engage lodgings there the evening before. Then Bracken and Cheyne took their leave, having found that the thoughtful and kindhearted old widow could give them no more information beyond the fact that the young lady, when she left that house, took the way leading into Kennington Road.

When the two men got outside, Cheyne said:

"Well, Bracken, what do you think of this?"

"I think, sir, we have done a good morning's work. The lady was here surely last evening, and late too, so that it is almost certain she slept in London last night. Now that's a most useful thing to know'; for we had all the trains watched this morning, and if she tried to get away by any of them, we shall have news of her. As it was late when she was here, we may take it she slept somewhere in this neighbourhood; so that we have limited the district we shall have to examine. These are two great things; in fact, they are nearly as good as if we had got sight of her."

"And what do you think we should do next?"

"The best thing for you to do is to go back to the hotel. They may have more knowledge of her there now. I'll go round here to the stations, and see if they know anything. I suppose, sir, you would not mind spending a little money locally on this district, now that we have a-I won't say clue, but trace?"

"No, no; spend any money you like. You will come back as soon as you have made arrangements here?"

"I will."

CHAPTER IX.
WAITING FOR NEWS

When Cheyne returned to the hotel, he found clues had accumulated during his absence, but that nothing more important than clues had turned up. He wrote a brief note to Miss Traynor, saying they had certain intelligence of Marion; that he had been to a house in which she had sought lodgings last night; and that there could now be no doubt Marion would be restored to her friends in a very short time. He did not name any exact hour, or even day, for her return; for, warned by his hasty prophecy of the night before, he did not care to risk another disappointment. In avoiding prophecy, he did not wholly, or even to any large extent, consider Miss Traynor's ease of mind, for, from what he had seen of her since Marion's flight, he did not think theory or hope likely to be of any great good. "Nothing," he said to himself, "but the sight of Marion, and the touch of her hand, will rouse the poor old lady from her lethargy." But he forbore to prophesy, because he did not wish to be again mistaken to himself. He would admit no sentimental thoughts into his mind until the mere business of the case had been discharged-until Marion was once more under the protection of her aunt; and in the meantime he must not exhaust his hope or energy by placing limits to her absence, only to find these limits overpassed.

It was past ten o'clock when Cheyne got back to his hotel. He had two great desires in this unhappy affair. One was that his own rank should not ooze out, and the other that the utmost possible secrecy should be observed. These two wishes were indeed only two parts of the one, for, if it were known that the Duke of Shropshire had a case in the hands of the detectives, it would be sure to get into the papers; and, if anyone knew that Miss Durrant had left her home alone without consulting her friends or guardians, it would very soon be known the relation in which she stood to him. Accordingly, he telegraphed to Miss Traynor's servant that she was not to open the door that day to any one whatsoever until he saw her; for he very well knew that if Anne allowed an acquaintance of either of the ladies in, or even if she stood talking for a few seconds at the open door, the secret would be over the whole district in an hour. Having despatched the telegram, he adopted another precaution. He sent down one of the private-inquiry men to Tenby Terrace with instructions that he was to stay in the house, to open the side-door as far as was absolutely necessary, and to see that no one went into or came out of the house. Of course Anne was in the secret, and might tell at some later day, even though a curb was now placed on her natural loquacity; still, sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, and later on he could devise means of insuring her permanent silence. In order most effectually to guard against the danger of his rank being discovered, he thought the best thing for him to do would be to retire from the active conduct of the search. He therefore resolved to place it in the hands of Macklin and Dowell, and at about eleven o'clock he found himself detailing the facts of the evening and night to Mr. Macklin, who promised to do all he could, and undertook to say that there was no doubt whatever that the young lady would be discovered that day before set of sun.

Mr. Macklin was very unlike the typical family London lawyer. He was low of stature, well-proportioned, fresh-complexioned, and abrupt and forcible in speech. He had a decidedly horsey appearance, although, as a matter of fact, he took as little interest in horses as any man within the sound of Big Ben. Although he was a solicitor, he hated law, and left all the legal elements of the firm to his partner. But he had a taste for business which did not wear a strictly legal aspect, and he entered into the ordinary and extraordinary affairs of the clients with a zest which made him cheering to his own side and irresistible against those on the other. Cheyne had known him, and liked him, before the great change had taken place in his fortunes; and one of the chief pleasures he had in contemplating his good luck was that by means of it he could do a service to Macklin by appointing his firm law-agents to the Shropshire property. Macklin was the quickest and most ready of men. When a thing was proposed to him he never made a difficulty. He either instantly declared the thing to be impossible, or he went about doing it with all his heart and soul, and with such a manner of conviction he was right that it seemed an outrage on common sense to oppose him.

Cheyne asked the lawyer if there was anything more he would recommend to be done.

"No," said Macklin, "leave it all in the hands of Bracken now. You could not possibly have done better. There is not a more intelligent, conscientious, and painstaking man in the Yard. You may do what you like, go where you please. Take my word for it, things will turn out as I say, and before dark you will be at rest."

"And now," said Cheyne, "I want you to do something for me. I told you of the way in which we heard of her?"

"Yes, yes, of course, through the old widow lady; of course. Somewhere in Kennington. I wonder you found a lady keeping lodgings there. My impression was, and is still, that with the one exception you met, every lodging-house is kept by a retired upper servant. But you were about to say-?"

"The house is No. 8, Garthorne Road, Kennington, and I want you, if you can, to buy it for me. I know this is rather a strange thing to ask you, for of course the house may not be for sale."

"Any limit as to price, your grace."

"No; no limit."

"Then if the house is not in the market, we must put it in the market."

"How can you manage that?"

"We will put golden rollers under it, and roll it into the market. If the house is one the market valued at five hundred pounds, we will pay down the five hundred. If, being worth five hundred pounds, it is not in the market, we give a thousand, that's the only difference. You cannot get everything you want in this world, your grace, unless you have plenty of money, and are willing to give your money for what you want."

"Then I may look on that thing as settled?"

"Oh, yes, practically settled. Of course, if a miracle should occur against us, there would be a hitch."

"And suppose a miracle did occur against us, what then?" asked Cheyne.

"Why, then the purchase-money would be two thousand pounds, instead of only one."

Then Cheyne explained to the lawyer his wishes with regard to secrecy, and her name and his being kept out of people's mouths, and most particularly out of the newspapers.

"Last night," said he, "when the first fresh anxiety was upon me, I thought of going to the newspapers and inserting advertisements for this morning; but it was too late, and now I am glad it was too late; for while there would be hardly a likelihood of her seeing any of the advertisements, and less of her acting on them, there would be reason to fear someone else might see and understand to whom they referred. I wish you to take the whole thing up for me, and act for me now until the end. Of course, last night I had to do what I could myself. I did not know where to find you. You will, I am sure, do all you can for me."

"You may rely on my thinking of nothing else until the young lady is restored to her friends."

When he asked himself the question, had his love for May altered with his altered fortune? he smiled, but would not deign any other reply. He was not insensible to the enormous advantages attending his new position. To be a duke of England was to be one of the first subjects of the first country in the world; and then to have that great honour; coupled with an income which exceeded that of many European sovereigns, were circumstances which impressed him profoundly. Although he moved and acted as though he believed all that had happened, when he was alone he always tried to shake off what he could not help regarding as a delusion. At times it seemed to him as though he was but playing a part, into which he had entered so thoroughly that he could not at ordinary moments divest his mind of the character he had temporarily assumed. This was a very unpleasant feeling; he would have given a great deal to be rid of it, but nothing he could do would drive it away. When people came up to him and called him "your grace" he always felt inclined to laugh, but refrained from doing so, lest it might spoil the play.

He had talked to May about taking the oath and his seat; but although his manner may have been serious, he spoke more as one continuing the play than as one uttering serious words of measured import.

He had called her Duchess, but he had done it in jest, or at least half jest, or as another portion of the play, but not as a part of their own real life. Women are much more literal than men. She had taken all his words literally, and been affrighted by them. Besides, it was much more easy for her than for him to realise the fact that he was a duke. She was a woman; he was her lover, her hero, and, to her mind, worthy of being anything and everything good on earth. But he knew the stuff he was made of, the thoughts that had been in his mind; and to himself the notion of his wearing a coronet was mostly comic. Still, carrying out the conceit of the play, he had indulged his imagination with comic scenes in the House of Lords, between him and others of the hereditary members until he had to shout out laughing. He had had even the irreverence to picture a full sitting of the House of Lords as a transformation scene, in which all the noble lords wore their robes and coronets until the red fire was turned on, and he, playing harlequin, jumped in, and with one blow of his lath sword turned all the noble lords into his old intimate friends of Fleet Street.

In the other days, when he lived in Long Acre and earned a few pounds a week, he had indulged his imagination with lordly company. He had written about lords and ladies, dukes and fine associates; he had described palaces beside which the Escurial was but a simple manor-house; he had lavished riches, and bestowed whole countries, on his heroes. Moreover, he had taken these lords and ladies out of the frame of fiction, and set their portraits round his simple table, making believe that he was the wisest, the richest, and the most puissant of all. He had acted as one of the commissioners in opening Parliament, and crowned monarchs in Westminster Abbey; he had been received with regal honours at foreign courts; had danced with Princesses of the Blood, and been minister in attendance at Osborne. In all these romances and dreams he had been awake. Then into his sleep his splendid surroundings had followed him; the mere dross of authorship he left behind when he slept, but he could not, if he would, shake off the phantoms aristocracy; they followed him into sleep with the easy familiarity of friends whom he could not deny. The shadowy duke who by day graced his garret breakfast by night sent him presents of game or wine or jewels. In his waking and his sleeping dreams he was always rich beyond measurement by number. All the wealth of the world was at his feet, and he scattered it with a liberal hand. The affluence of his imagination was never checked by the emptiness of his purse. He had led a double life-the one of iron poverty, the other of golden visions. So much had his dreams become a portion of his inner life that they often overflowed into his talk. When he dreamed he had been on a visit to the Marquis of Thanet, and came to tell of his dream, he forgot to put in the words "I dreamt." What difference did those two words make? No one was the richer or the poorer for leaving the words out, and the anecdote was all the shorter.

Now reality had exceeded in his own person any dignity or wealth he had ever enjoyed in the realm of shadows. It was one of his great difficulties to persuade himself all was not the pure creation of the brain. He had never, after waking, believed in the reality of those dreams. He had never been at a loss to know whether the Long Acre rooms or the marquis's castles were the reality when he was awake in the Long Acre rooms; but in his sleep he was confident the castles were substantial. When he slept now, he lived in the Long Acre rooms; when he woke, then he dwelt in the marquis's castles. The real and the imaginary had been interchanged, and although he felt, in talking to men who knew of the great change, that he should act as the Duke of Shropshire, he was always prepared to awake and find himself in bed at the top of Mr. Whiteshaw's carriage-manufactory, and, hear the noise of Mrs. Ward in the outer room, busy getting his breakfast ready.

But in the old time and the new there was one thing that never changed-he was always May's lover. In the old time, when he was at the marquis's castles, he thought how he should bring May there when they were married. In the old time, in the Long Acre rooms, he thought how he should go away from them for ever when May was his. In the new time May would enjoy the Long Acre rooms, and how she would enjoy the marquis's castles! Thus she was more with him at this time than ever. Her image was never from his side; her voice was always in his ear. And now she had gone away from him.

Where was she now? Good God, if anything had happened to her!