It was next morning, whilst Jane was sorting and arranging the papers
for the library table, that she caught sight of Henry’s first message.
She very nearly missed it, for the fold of the paper cut right across
the agony column, and what caught her eye was the one word that passed
as a signature, “Thursday.” It startled her so much that she dropped the
paper, and, in snatching at it, knocked over a pile of magazines.
Lady Heritage looked over her shoulder with a frown, tapped with her
foot, and then went on with her writing in a silence that uttered more
reproof than words could have done.
Jane picked everything up as silently as possible. As she put the papers
on the table, she laid _The Times_ out flat, and, bending over it, read
the message:
“You will receive a letter from me. Trust the bearer. Thursday.”
She put all the papers neatly in their places, and went to her
writing-table with an intense longing to be alone, to be able to think
what this might mean, and to wonder who—who would be the bearer of
Henry’s letter. She hoped ardently that Lady Heritage would have
business in the laboratories, and whilst these thoughts, and hopes, and
wonderings filled her mind, she had to write neat and legible replies to
the apparently inexhaustible number of persons who desired Lady Heritage
to open bazaars, speak at public meetings, subscribe to an indefinite
number of charities, or contribute to the writer’s support.
When, at last, she was alone in her own room, she was tingling with
excitement. At any moment some one, some unknown friend and ally, might
present himself. It was exciting, but, she thought, rather risky.
For instance, supposing Henry’s letter came, by any mischance, into the
wrong hands—and letters were mislaid and stolen sometimes—what a
perfectly dreadful chapter of misfortunes might ensue. She frowned, and
decided that Henry had been rash.
It was with a pleasant feeling of superiority that she put on her hat
and went out into the garden to pick tulips.
The weather had changed in the night, and it was hot and sunny, with the
sudden dazzling heat of mid-April. In the walled garden the south border
was full of violet-scented yellow tulips, each looking at this new hot
sun with a jet-black eye. A sheet of forget-me-nots repeated the sheer
blue of the sky.
Jane picked an armful of tulips and a sheaf of leopard’s bane. Strictly
speaking, she should then have gone in to put the flowers in water for
the adornment of the Yellow Drawing-Room. Instead, she made her way to
the farthest corner of the garden and basked.
At first she looked at the flowers, but after a while her eyelids fell.
Jane has never admitted that she went to sleep, but, if she was thinking
with her eyes shut, her thoughts must have been of an extremely
engrossing nature, for it is certain that she heard neither the opening
nor the shutting of a door in the wall beside her. She did feel a shadow
pass between herself and the sun, and opening her eyes quickly she saw
standing beside her the very man from whom she had fled in terror
yesterday.
The sunlight fell from upon him, showing the shabby clothes, the tall,
stooping figure, the grizzled beard, and that disfiguring scar.
With a great start Jane attempted to rise, only to discover that a
wheelbarrow may make a very comfortable chair, but that it is uncommonly
difficult to get out of in a hurry. To her horror the man, George
Patterson, took her firmly by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. She
shrank intensely from his touch, received an impression of unusual
strength, and then, to her overwhelming surprise, she heard him say in a
low, well-bred voice, “I have a letter for you, Miss Smith.”
“Oh, hush!” said Jane—“oh, please, hush!”
“All right, I won’t do it again. Look here, I want to say a few words to
you, but we had better not be seen together. Here’s your letter. Stay
where you are for five minutes, and then come down to the potting-shed.
Don’t come in; stay by the door and tie your shoe-lace.”
He went off with his dragging step, and left Jane dumb. There was a
folded note in her hand, and in her mind so intense a shock of surprise
as to rob her very thoughts of expression.
After what seemed like a long paralysed month, she opened the note which
bore no address, and read, pencilled in Henry’s clear and very
ornamental hand, “The bearer is trustworthy.—H. L. M.”
When she had looked so long at Henry’s initials that they had blurred
and cleared again, not once but many times, she walked mechanically down
the path until she came to the shed. Beside it was a barrel full of
rain-water. Into this she dipped Henry’s note, made sure that the words
were totally illegible, poked a hole in the border, and covered the
sodden paper with earth. Then at the potting-shed door she knelt and
became occupied with her shoe-lace.
“Henry saw me after he saw you,” said George Patterson’s voice. “He
thought it might be a comfort to you to know there is a friend on the
spot; but I’m afraid I gave you a fright yesterday.”
“You did,” said Jane, “but I don’t know why. I was a perfect fool, and I
ran right into Mr. Ember’s arms.”
“Did you tell him what frightened you?” said Patterson quickly.
“No, I wasn’t quite such a fool as that. Please, who are you?”
“My name here is George Patterson. I’m a friend of Henry’s. If you want
me, I’m here.”
“If I want you,” said Jane, “how am I to get at you?”
Mr. Patterson considered.
“There’s a wide sill inside your window.” (And how on earth do you know
that? thought Jane.) “If you put a big jar of, say, those yellow tulips
there, I’ll know you want to speak to me, and I’ll come here to this
potting-shed as soon as I can. You know they keep us pretty busy with
roll-calls and things of that sort. I only got back yesterday by the
skin of my teeth—I had to bolt.”
“Did you—you didn’t pass me.”
“No, I didn’t pass you.” There was just a trace of amusement in Mr.
Patterson’s voice.
Jane pulled her shoe-lace undone, and began to tie it all over again.
“Hush!” she said very quick and low. “Some one is coming.”
Just where the path ended, not half a dozen yards away, the red-brick
wall was pierced by a door. Two round, Scotch rose-bushes, all tiny
green leaf and sharp brown prickle, grew like large pin-cushions on
either side of the interrupted border. Bright pink nectarine buds shone
against the brick like coral studs. The ash-coloured door, rough and
sun-blistered, was opening slowly, and into the garden came Raymond
Heritage, pushing the door with one hand and holding a basket of bulbs
in the other. She was looking back over her shoulder, at something or
someone beside her.
From inside the potting-shed came Patterson’s voice—just a breath:
“Who?”
“Lady Heritage.”
Jane was up as she spoke and moving away. She reached the door just as
Raymond closed it and, turning, saw her.
“Oh, Miss Molloy—I was really looking for you. Is Garstin anywhere
about?”
“I haven’t seen him,” murmured Jane, as if the absent gardener might be
blooming unnoticed in one of the borders.
“He’s not in the potting-shed? I’ll just look in and see. I want to
stand over him and see that he puts these black irises where I want them
to go. They come from Palestine, and the last lot failed entirely
because he was so obstinate. I’ll get a trowel and mark the place I
think.” She moved forward as she spoke, and Jane, horror-struck,
stammered:
“Let _me_ look. It’s so dusty in there.”
She was back at the door of the shed, but Lady Heritage was beside her.
“I want a trowel, too,” she said, and Jane felt herself gently pushed
over the threshold.
They were both just inside the door. It seemed dark after the strong
light outside. There was a row of windows along one side, and a broad
deal shelf under them. There were piles and piles of pots and boxes.
There were hanks of bass and rows of tools, There were watering-cans.
There was a length of rubber hose. But there was no George Patterson.
Jane put her hand behind her, gripped the jamb of the door, and moved
back a pace so that she could lean against it. The pots, the tools, the
bass and the rubber hose danced before her bewildered eyes.
Lady Heritage put her basket of bulbs down on the wide shelf and said:
“Garstin ought to be here. He’s really very tiresome. That’s the worst
of old servants. When a gardener has been in a place for forty years as
Garstin has, he owns it.”
“Shall I find him?” said Jane.
“No, not now. I really want to talk to you. I’ve just been speaking to
Jeffrey Ember, and he tells me you had a fright yesterday. What
frightened you?”
“Nothing—my own silliness.”
Jane felt as if she must scream. George Patterson had disappeared as if
by a conjuring trick. Where had he gone to? Where was he? It was just
like being in a dream.
Raymond Heritage seemed to tower before her in her white dress. Her
uncovered head almost touched the low beam above the door.
“Jeffrey said you were blind with fright—that you ran right into him. He
said you were as white as a sheet and shaking all over. I want to know
what frightened you?”
“A stone—it fell into the sea——”
“What made it fall? A man? What man?”
Jane leaned against the door-post, her breath coming and going, her eyes
held by those imperious eyes.
“A stone,” she said; “it fell—I ran away.”
“Miss Molloy,” said Lady Heritage, “you walked to the end of the
headland, out of sight of the house. Whilst you were there something
gave you a serious fright. Something—or somebody. This is all nonsense
about a stone. Whom did you see on the headland, for you certainly saw
somebody? No, don’t look away; I want you to look at me, please.”
“I don’t know why I was so frightened,” said Jane. “It just came over
me.”
Lady Heritage looked at her very gravely.
“If you saw any stranger on the headland, it is your absolute duty to
tell me. Where secrets of such value are in question it is necessary to
watch every avenue and to neglect no suspicious circumstance. If you are
trying to screen any one, you are acting very foolishly—very foolishly
indeed. I warn you, and I ask you again. What frightened you?”
“I don’t know,” said Jane in a little whispering voice. “Why, why do you
think there was any one?”
“I don’t think,” said Lady Heritage briefly. “I know. Mr. Ember went up
to the headland after he left you, and there were footmarks in the
gravel. Some man had undoubtedly been there, and you must have seen him.
Mr. Ember made the entire round and saw no one, but some one had been
there. _Now_ will you tell me what you saw?”
“Oh!” said Jane. Rather to her own astonishment she began to cry. “Oh,
that’s why I was frightened then! The stone fell so suddenly, and I
didn’t know why—why——”
The sobs choked her.
Lady Heritage stood looking at her for a moment.
“Are you just an arrant little fool,” she said in a low voice, “or....”
“Oh, I’m not!” sobbed Jane. “Oh, I’ve never been called such a thing
before! I know I’m not clever, but I don’t think you ought to call me a
f—f—fool.”
Lady Heritage pressed her lips together, and walked past Jane and out
into the sunshine. She stood there for a moment tapping with her foot.
Then she called rather impatiently:
“Miss Molloy! Dry your eyes and come here.”
Jane came, squeezing a damp handkerchief into a ball.
“Bring your flowers in; I see you’ve left them over there to die in the
sun. I’m driving into Withstead this afternoon and you can come with me.
I have to see Mrs. Cottingham about some University extension lectures,
and she telephoned just now to say would I bring you. She has a girl
staying with her who thinks she must have been at school with you or one
of your cousins. Her name is Daphne Todhunter.”
Jane stood perfectly still. Daphne Todhunter? Arnold Todhunter’s sister
Daphne! Renata’s friend! But Daphne must know that Arnold was married?
The question was—whom _had_ Arnold married. Had his family welcomed (by
letter) Jane Smith or Renata Molloy to its bosom? If Renata Molloy, how
in the world was a second Renata to be explained to Miss Daphne
Todhunter?
“Miss Molloy, what’s the matter with you?” said Lady Heritage.
Jane could not think quickly enough. Supposing Lady Heritage went to
Mrs. Cottingham’s without her; and supposing Daphne Todhunter were to
say that her brother Arnold had married a girl called Renata Molloy?
It was too much to hope that Arnold had carried discretion to the point
of telling his own family that he had married an unknown Jane Smith.
Jane suddenly threw up her chin and squared her shoulders. The colour
came back into her cheeks.
“Nothing,” she said, with a little caught breath. “I’m sorry I was so
silly, and for crying, and if I was rude to you. It’s most awfully kind
of you to take me into Withstead.”
If there were any music to be faced, Jane was going to face it. At least
the tune should not be called behind her back.