Kitabı oku: «Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXII.
TO BE, TO DO, TO SUFFER
On the day that followed the events last related, Madeline Payne returned to Oakley to resume her self-imposed task.
Leaving the train, the girl took the path through the woods. When she had traversed it half way, she came upon old Hagar, who was seated upon a fallen log awaiting her. Looking cautiously about, to assure herself that the interview would have no spectators, Madeline, or Céline, as we must now call her, seated herself to listen to the report of Davlin's visit, and the success of Hagar's interview with Cora.
Expressing herself fully satisfied with what she heard, Céline made the old woman acquainted with the result of her visit to the city, or as much of it as was necessary and expedient. Then, after some words of mutual council, and a promise to visit her that evening, if possible, the girl lost no time in making her way to the manor, and straight into the presence of her mistress.
Considering that her maid was – her maid, Miss Arthur welcomed her with an almost rapturous outburst. Céline had held high place in the affections of Miss Arthur, truth to tell, since her astonishing discovery of Mr. Edward Percy, in the character of young Romeo, promenading within sight of his lady's window.
"Céline," simpered Miss Arthur, while the damsel addressed was brushing out her mistress's hair, preparatory to building it into a French wonder; "Céline, I may be wrong in talking so freely to you about myself and my – my friends, but I observe that you never presume in the least – "
"Oh, mademoiselle, I could never do that!" cooed the girl, with wicked double meaning.
"And," pursued Miss Arthur, graciously, "you are really quite a sagacious and discreet young person."
"Thanks, miladi." Then, as if recollecting herself, "Pardon, mademoiselle, but you are so like her ladyship, Madame Le Baronne De Orun, my very first mistress – "
"Oh, I don't mind it at all, Céline. As I was saying, you seem quite a superior young person, and no doubt I am not the first who has made you a sort of confidante.
"Merci! no; my lady. Madame Le Baronne used to trust me with everything, and often deigned to ask my advice. But French ladies, oui, mademoiselle, always put confidence in their maids. And a maid will die rather than betray a good mistress – "
"Exactly, Céline – are you going to put my hair so high?"
"Very high, miladi."
"Oh, well; will it be becoming?"
"Oui; La mode la Francaise," relapsing into ecstacy and French. "Le coiffeur comme il faut! Chere amie, le-chef-a-œuvre!"
Miss Arthur collapsed, and Céline continued to build up an atrociously unbecoming pile of puffs and curls in triumphant silence.
Céline never indulged in her native tongue, so she assured her mistress, except when carried away by momentary enthusiasm, or unwonted emotion. It was bad taste, she averred, and she desired to cultivate the beautiful American language.
Presently Miss Arthur made another venture, feeling quite justified in following in the footsteps of so august a personage as Madame Le Baronne.
"Did you see Mr. Percy after you left Bellair?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Did you observe if he returned in the same train with yourself?"
"No, mademoiselle." Then, with a meaning little laugh: "Monsieur will not remain long from Oakley."
Miss Arthur tried to look unconscious, and succeeded in looking idiotic.
"Pardon, mademoiselle, but I can't forget that night. Mademoiselle is surely relieved of one fear."
"What is that?"
"The fear of being wooed because of her wealth."
Miss Arthur started, then said: "There may be something in that, Céline; and it is not impossible that I may inherit more."
"Ah?" inquiringly.
"Yes. Possibly you have learned from the servants that Mr. Arthur lost a young step-daughter not long ago; just before you came, in fact."
"I don't remember. Did she die, mademoiselle?"
"Yes. She was a very wild, unruly child, a regular little heathen – oh!"
"Pardon, oh, pardon, did it hurt?" removing a long, spiky hair pin, with much apparent solicitude.
"A – a little; yes. As I was saying, this ridiculous girl was sent to school and no expense spared to make a lady of her."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; and then she rewards my brother for all his kindness by running away."
"Merci, mademoiselle!" suddenly recalling her French.
"And then she died among strangers, just as provokingly as she had lived. She must even run away to die, to make it seem as if her home was not a happy one."
"What a very wicked young person; how you must have been annoyed."
"We were all deeply grieved."
"And I don't suppose that dead young woman was even grateful for that."
"Oh, there was no gratitude in her."
"Of course not! Now, mademoiselle, let me do your eyebrows," turning her about.
"But," pursued Miss Arthur, "when she died, my brother acquired unconditional control of a large fortune, and you must see that my brother is getting rather old. Well, in case of his death, a part, at least, of this fortune will become mine."
"Yes, madame."
"My brother is too much afraid to face the thought of death and make a new will, and papers are in existence that will give me the larger portion of his fortune. Of course, Mrs. Arthur will get her third."
Céline was now surprised in earnest.
Miss Arthur had spoken the truth. With shrewd foresight, she had made John Arthur sign certain papers two years before, in consideration of sundry loans from her. And of this state of affairs every one, except their two selves and the necessary lawyer, had remained in ignorance.
The girl's eyes gleamed. This was still better. It would make her vengeance more complete.
And now Miss Arthur was thrown into a state of girlish agitation by the appearance of Susan, who announced that Mr. Percy was in the drawing-room, awaiting the pleasure of his inamorata.
She bade Céline make haste with her complexion and, after the lapse of something like half an hour, swept down to welcome her lover, with a great many amber silk flounces following in her wake.
Céline Leroque gazed after her for a moment and then closed the door. Flinging herself down "at ease" in the spinster's luxurious dressing chair, she pulled off the blue glasses and let the malicious triumph dance in her eyes as much as it would.
"Oh, you are a precious pair, you two, brother and sister! The one a knave, the other a fool! It is really pathetic to see how you mourn my loss. I have a great mind to – "
Here something seemed to occur to her that checked her mutterings, and sent her off into a deep meditation. After a long stillness she uttered a low, mocking laugh that had, too, a tinge of mischief in it. Rising slowly from the dressing chair she said, as she nodded significantly to her image reflected back from Miss Arthur's dressing glass:
"I'll put that idea into execution some nice night, and then won't there be a row in the castle? Ah! my charming mistress, if you had spoken one kind or regretful word for poor Madeline, it would have been better for you!"
What was the girl meditating now? What did she mean?
"Yes, good people at Oakley, I believe I'll take a little private amusement out of you all, while I feel quite in the mood. I won't be too partial."
Then she betook herself to her own room and let her thoughts fly back to Olive and Claire and – Clarence.
Presently, for she was very weary, spite of the previous night's repose, she fell asleep.
Late that evening she flitted through the woods and across the meadow to the cottage of old Hagar. Sleep had refreshed her and she had dreamed pleasant dreams. She felt stout of heart, and firm of nerve.
Old Hagar was overjoyed to see a smile in her nursling's face, and to hear, at times, a laugh, low and sweet, reminding her of olden days. The girl remained with her old nurse for nearly an hour. When they parted there was a perfect understanding between them, in regard to future movements and plans.
No one at Oakley was aware of Lucian Davlin's flying visit; thus much Céline knew. But of the purport and result of that visit, she knew nothing. Nor could she guess. She must bide her time, for there seemed just now little to disturb the monotony of waiting.
One thing was, however, necessary. When the time came for Miss Arthur to leave Oakley, Céline must remain. To that end she must contrive to fall out with the spinster, and "fall in" with Madame Cora. If that lady could not be beguiled into retaining her at Oakley, she must resort to a more hazardous scheme. She had already taken a step toward ingratiating herself with Mrs. Arthur, and with tolerable success. She was maturing her plans and waiting for an opportunity to put them into action.
No doubt but that by the time she had accomplished her object, if it could be accomplished, the opposite forces would come into conflict.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SETTING SOME SNARES
Three days had now passed since Madeline's return from the city. On the morning of the fourth day, she seized the first leisure moment for a visit to the post-office. Instead of the single letter from Olive that she had expected, she found three.
They were enclosed in one wrapper. This she removed on her way back to Oakley, and found the first, as was the wrapper, addressed in Olive's hand. The penmanship of the second was fairy-like and beautiful, and she recognized it as Claire's. At sight of the third, her heart gave a great bound, and then almost stood still. It was superscribed in a firm, manly hand, and was, it must be, from Dr. Vaughan.
Once securely locked in her room, Madeline opened the first of her letters with eager fingers. Yes, Olive's first. The desire to see what he had said was strong in her heart, but she had decided not to humor her heart. She held his letter caressingly for a moment and then putting it beside Claire's opened and read Olive Girard's letter.
It was like Olive's self; sweet, womanly, hopeful, yet sad:
Dear Madeline:
I am only now beginning to realize the new life and hope you have put into my heart. As I think again of what you have done and are doing, I cannot but feel faith in your success. Oh, if I could but work with you; for you and for Philip!
Again and again I implore you to pardon me for ever doubting your wisdom or strength. If at any time I can aid you – such poor aid – my purse is yours, as your cause is mine.
Claire and Doctor Vaughan will speak for themselves. And as I dare make no more suggestions to so wise a woman, I only put in a faint little plea. Do, pray, grant Doctor Vaughan's request, and may God aid you in all that you do.
Olive.
"Doctor Vaughan's request!" repeated the girl. "Would that I could grant him not only all his requests, but all his wishes!"
Then she opened Claire's letter.
My Grand Madeline:
How proud I am to claim you for my friend! I shall never again conduct myself with any degree of meekness toward people who have not the happiness of knowing you. And you should hear Doctor Vaughan extol you! He says you are wiser and braver than any detective. That he would trust you in any emergency. That if any one can lift the cloud that hangs over poor Philip, it is you.
My heart tells me that you will yet prove the good angel of Philip and Olive, as already you have been mine; and soon, I pray, you will become that and more to Doctor Vaughan; you must and shall. I shall have no wish ungratified when I can see your trials at an end; and yourself, surrounded by us who love you, happy at last. Don't let all these other claimants push me out of your heart; always keep one little place for your loving, grateful
Claire.
Madeline's eyes were moist when she lifted them from the perusal of this letter.
"Bright, beautiful, brave Claire," she murmured; "who could help loving her?"
Then her eyes fell again upon the letter, and she started:
"'You will become that and more to Doctor Vaughan,'" she read. "What can she mean? Can it be possible that, after all, I have betrayed myself to her?"
She re-read the letter from beginning to end, her face flushing and paling.
"Oh!" she whispered softly, "she has read my heart, and we are playing at cross purposes! What a queer rivalry," the girl actually laughed; "a rivalry of renunciation. Does she yet know how he loves her, I wonder?" Then, her face growing graver, "she won't be long in making that discovery now."
She took up Clarence Vaughan's letter, almost dreading to break the seal.
My Brave Little Sister:
You perceive, I have commenced my tyranny. And instead of being able to grant favors to my new sister, I am reduced to the necessity of begging them at her hands. In a word, I want to come to Bellair. Not to be a meddlesome adviser; I am too firmly a convert to your method of procedure for that. Besides, I should have to declare war upon Miss Keith if I presumed thus far. But I do desire to further your plans, and to this end would make a suggestion that has occurred to me since hearing of your marvelous detective work.
Believe me, I cannot express the admiration I feel for your daring and tact. I have no longer the faintest scruple as to trusting this issue, so important to all of us, in your hands. And I am more than proud of such a sister.
May I come to Bellair, say on Monday next? I will stop at the little station a few miles this side of the village, and walk or drive over, and find my way to the cottage of your old nurse, where you can meet me, unless you have a better place to suggest. I shall anxiously await your answer, and am your brother to command.
C. E. Vaughan.
Madeline's cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.
"How they all trust me!" she ejaculated; "and they always shall. I will never be false to their friendship; no, not if to serve them my heart's blood must become wormwood and gall."
She re-read all her letters, but would not allow herself to linger too long over that of Clarence Vaughan. She had resolved to have no more weakness, no more outbreaks of passion. She was very stern with herself. Even as a friend and brother, she would not allow her thoughts to dwell too much upon him, until she grew stronger, and more perfect in her renunciation.
Then she sat down at her humble little table, and answered her letters.
To Olive she wrote a sweet, cheery note, telling of her gratitude, her affection, her hope for the future; and then she added a womanlike P. S. as follows:
Please say to Doctor Vaughan that I will be at Hagar's cottage on Monday evening, but can't tell the precise time I may be able to appear. If he follows the main road through the village, until he has passed the grounds of Oakley, he will have no difficulty in finding the cottage. It stands alone, almost in the middle of a field, facing the west, and is the first habitation after Oakley.
"I cannot write to him," she said; "at least not now."
Then she wrote Claire a long, cheery letter, saying little of herself, and much of her friends, – of all save Doctor Vaughan. She would not mention him tenderly, she could not mention him lightly; so she would say of him nothing at all.
But if Madeline was astute, Claire, too, was beginning to develop that quality. So when the latter young lady read this letter, she smiled and said: "The dear little hypocrite! As if she could deceive me by this evidently studied neglect. Oh! you proud, stiff-necked, little detective!"
And their game of cross purposes went on.
Madeline had sealed her letters, and was about to reach for her hat preparatory to hastening with them to the post office, when her attention was arrested by a sound, slight but unusual, and not far away. She stood erect, silent, motionless, listening intently. Presently the sound was repeated, and then a look of intelligence passed over the girl's face.
"Some one is in the deserted rooms," she thought. And she abandoned for the present her purpose of going out.
There was but one way to approach the closed-up rooms, and that way led past the door of Madeline's room.
A few paces beyond her door, the hall connecting the west wing with the more modern portion, made a sharp curve and opened into the main hall of that floor. Céline Leroque opened her door cautiously, having first donned her not very becoming walking attire. Then she took up her position just outside the angle of the western hall, and so close to it that if an approach was made from below, she could easily retire behind the angle.
She had grown heartily tired of her sentinel task when, at last, a soft rustle was heard near at hand. Céline turned so quickly into the narrower hall that she fairly ran upon and stopped – Mrs. John Arthur! who uttered a sharp exclamation expressive of surprise and annoyance.
Céline poured forth a mixture of French and English, expressive of her contrition and horror at having "almost overturned madame," and wound up by saying, "Madame has been to my room? Madame has desired some service, perhaps? If so, she has only to command."
Cora drew a breath of relief, having sufficiently recovered from the collision and accompanying confusion, to draw a breath of any kind, and at once rallied her forces.
"Yes, Céline, I wanted you to do something for me, if you will."
"Anything, madame."
Madame was collecting her thoughts. "I – I wanted to ask if you could find time to come to my room and try and do something with my hair. Your hair-dressing is perfect, and I am so tired of my own."
Céline would be only too happy. Should she come now? She had just returned from the village; she would put off her hat and be at madame's disposal. But madame was not inclined to be manipulated just then. Céline might come to her dressing room and do her hair for dinner – after she was done with Miss Arthur, of course.
So they separated, mutually satisfied.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A VERITABLE GHOST
What a day of glory it had been to the spinster, this day on which Madeline had read her three letters, and Cora had explored the shut-up wing.
And what a day of torture to fastidious Edward Percy, who would have welcomed any third presence, even Cora or John Arthur – any one, anything, was better than that long slavery at the feet of a painted and too-visibly ancient mistress. But even the longest days have an end. At last he was set at liberty, and he hurried back to the little inn, literally kicking his way through the Autumn darkness.
The old house of Oakley stood, with its last light extinguished, tall and somber, against a back-ground of black sky and blacker trees. At last every soul under its roof was asleep – all but one. That one was very wide awake and intent on mischief.
Love-making, dear reader, although you may not know it, is a wearisome business, even if ever so agreeable. Especially is it wearisome to those like Miss Arthur – maidens whose waists are too tight, whose complexions will ill-endure lip service, and whose tresses are liable to become not only dishevelled but dislocated. Therefore, when Miss Arthur had dismissed her lover, with a sigh of regret, she lost no time in doffing her glories with a sigh of relief.
Even a very rich and hearty luncheon, which her maid had provided, was gormandized rather than enjoyed, so tempting did her couch look to the worn-out damsel.
Miss Arthur had refreshed herself with an hour's uninterrupted repose, and was revelling in a dreamy Arcadia, hand in hand with her beloved, when something cold falling on her cheek dispelled her visions. She started broad awake, and face to face with a horrible reality.
The moon was pouring a flood of silvery light in through the two windows, facing the south, whose curtains were drawn back, making the room almost as light as at mid-day.
And there, near her bed, almost within reach of her hand, stood Madeline Payne, all swathed in white clinging cerements, ghastly as a corpse, hollow-eyed and awful, but, nevertheless, Madeline Payne! Over her white temples dropped rings of curly, yellow hair, and across the pale lips a mocking smile was flitting.
Miss Arthur gasped and closed her eyes very tight, but they would not stay closed. They flew open again to behold the vision still there. The spinster was transfixed with horror. Cold drops of perspiration oozed out upon her forehead and trickled down her nose. She clutched at the bedclothes convulsively, and gazed and gazed.
Wider and wider stared her eyes, but no sound escaped her lips. She gazed and gazed, but the specter would not vanish. Poor Miss Arthur was terror-stricken almost to the verge of catalepsy.
In consideration of the persistence with which they return again and again, according to good authority, ghosts in general must be endowed with much patience. Be this as it may of the average ghost, certain it is that this particular apparition, after glaring immovably at the spinster for the space of five minutes, began to find it monotonous.
Slowly, slowly from among the snowy drapery came forth a white hand, that pointed at the occupant of the bed with silent menace.
The spell was broken. The lips of Miss Arthur were unclosed, and shrieks, one following the other in rapid succession, resounded in the ears of even the most remote sleepers.
With the utterance of her first yell, Miss Arthur had made a desperate plunge to the further side of her bed, away from the specter; and, turning her face to the wall, shut out thus the appalling white vision.
Having once found her voice, Miss Arthur continued to clutch at the bed clothes, glare at the wall, and shriek spasmodically, even after her "inner consciousness" must have assured her that the room now held others beside herself and the ghost, supposing it to be still on the opposite side of the bed.
Cora, in a state of wild deshabille; John Arthur, ditto, and armed with a cane; Susan and Mary, half in the room and half out; then Céline Leroque, apparently much frightened, without knowing at what.
A volley of questions from the master of the house, and a return of courage to the mistress. But Miss Arthur only gathered herself together, took in a fresh supply of breath, and embarked in another series of howls.
Nothing was amiss in the room; it could not have been a burglar. The night lamp was burning dimly behind its heavy shade; on the table were the fragments of Miss Arthur's lunch; and Mr. and Mrs. Arthur had found easy access through the closed, but unbolted door.
After a time, a long time, during which Cora and Céline administered sal volatile and other restoratives, Mr. Arthur douched her with oaths and ice water, and the servants whispered in a group, the maiden found voice.
It was a very feeble voice, and it conveyed to her audience the astounding intelligence that she had seen a ghost – Madeline Payne's ghost.
Upon hearing her story, John Arthur seemed at first a little startled. But Cora only laughed, and Céline, glancing significantly at the lunch table, said, with a slight smile:
"Mademoiselle has nerves, and she may have lunched heartily before retiring."
John Arthur strode across the room and viewed the débris of luncheon. "Humph!" he grunted. "Oysters and salads, potted meat and pastry; strong coffee and lemon syllabub with brandy. Good Lord, I don't know what should have kept the contents of an entire cemetery from sweeping down upon your slumbers, you female gourmand. Ghosts indeed!"
And he stamped out of the room in high dudgeon. His tirade was wholly lost upon his sister, however, for that lady was whimpering comfortably and putting all her feeble energy into the effort.
Cora glanced up as the door banged after her lord and master, and ordered the servants back to bed. Then she turned toward Céline, saying:
"That door was certainly not locked when we came to it, for I was here even sooner than Mr. Arthur."
Céline smiled again: "Mademoiselle dismissed me before she had finished her luncheon. I had disrobed her previously, and she said she should retire as soon as she drank her coffee. She may have forgotten the door."
Cora turned toward the bed. "Did you lock your door, Ellen?"
But Ellen did not know; she could not remember if she had or had not.
Then Cora said to Céline: "I am glad to find you so sensible. We shall have hard work now to convince those ridiculous servants that there is not a ghost in every corner."
"I do not think that graves open," replied the girl, seriously.
Then she gave her undivided attention to her mistress, who bade fair to be hysterical for the rest of the night.
Miss Arthur would not be left alone again. No argument could convince her that the specter was born of her imagination, and therefore not likely to return. So Cora bade Céline prepare to spend the remainder of the night in Miss Arthur's dressing room.
Accordingly, Céline withdrew to her own apartment, where her preparations were made as follows:
First, she shook out the folds of a sheet that hung over a chair, and restored it to its proper place on the bed. Then she removed from her dressing stand a box of white powder, and brushed away all traces of said powder from her garments and the floor. Next, she carefully hid away a key that had fallen to the floor and lay near the classically folded sheet. These things accomplished, she made a few additions to her toilet, extinguished the light, locked her door carefully, trying it afterward to make assurance doubly sure, and retraced her steps to relieve Cora, who was dutifully sitting by the spinster's bed, and beginning to shiver in her somewhat scanty drapery.
As the night wore on, and Miss Arthur became calmed and quiet, the girl lay back in the big dressing chair, gazing into the grate, and thinking. Her thoughts were sometimes of Claire, sometimes of Clarence; of the Girards, and of Edward Percy; then of her success as a ghostess, and at this she would almost laugh.
But from every subject her mind would turn again and again to one question, that repeated itself until it took the form of a goblin and danced through her dreams, when at last she slept, whispering over and over:
"What is it that Cora Arthur carries in a belt about her waist? what is it? what is it?"
For the girl had made a strange discovery while Cora was sitting beside Miss Arthur's bed, clad only in night's scanty drapery.
