THREADS OF THE FABRIC.
What had become of Madeline Payne?
The question went the round of the village, as such questions do. The
servants of Oakley fed upon it. They held secret conferences in the
kitchen, and grew loud and argumentative when they knew John Arthur
was safely out of hearing. They bore themselves with an air of
subdued, unobservant melancholy in his presence, and waxed important,
mysterious and unsatisfactory, when in converse with the towns
folk--as was quite right and proper, for were they not, in the eyes of
mystery hunters, objects of curiosity secondary only to their master
himself?
The somber-faced old housekeeper gave utterance to a doleful croak or
two, and a more doleful prophecy. But after a summons from John
Arthur, and a brief interview with him in the closely shut sacredness
of his especial den, not even the social intercourse of the kitchen
and the inspiration that the prolonged absence of the master always
lent to things below stairs, could beguile from her anything beyond
the terse statement that "she didn't meddle with her master's
affairs," and she "s'posed Miss Madeline knew where she was."
The housemaid, who read novels and was rather fond of Miss Payne,
grieved for a very little while, but found in this "visitation of
providence," as John Arthur piously termed it, food for romance
weaving on her own responsibility. She entertained Peter, the groom,
coachman and general factotum, with divers suggestions and
suppositions, each more soul harrowing than the last, making of poor
Madeline a lay figure upon which she fitted all the catastrophes that
had ever befallen her yellow-covered "heroinesses."
The villagers talked. It was all they could do, and their tongues were
very busy for a time until, in fact, a fresher sensation arrived.
Nurse Hagar was viewed and interviewed; but beyond sincere expression
of grief at her disappearance, and the unvarying statement that she
had not even the slightest conjecture as to the fate of the lost girl,
nothing could be gained from her.
Hagar was somewhat given to rather bluntly spoken opinions of folk who
happened to run counter to her notions in regard to prying, or, in
fact, her notions on any subject. In the present emergency she became
a veritable social hedgehog, and was soon left to solitude and her own
devices.
Whatever were Hagar's opinions on the subject, she kept them
discreetly locked within her own breast. She had received, at their
last interview, a revelation of the depth and force of character which
lay dormant in the nature of Madeline; and she believed, even when she
grieved most, that the girl would return, and that when she came she
would make her advent felt.
John Arthur went to the city "to put the matter in the hands of the
detectives," he said. But as he most fervently hoped and wished that
he had seen the last of his "stumbling--block," and believed that of
her own will she would not return, it is hardly to be supposed that
the Secret Service was severely taxed.
Be this as it may, the Summer days passed and he heard nothing of
Madeline.
* * * * *
Meantime, the neat little hotel that rejoiced in the name of the
Bellair House, displayed on a fresh page of its register the signature
of Lucian Davlin once more, and underneath it that of Mrs. C.
Torrance.
Mrs. C. Torrance was a blonde young widow, dressed in weeds of most
elegant quality and latest style, with just the faintest hint of an
approaching season of half mourning.
Mrs. Torrance had now been an inmate of Bellair House some days, and
she certainly had no reason to complain that her present outlook was
not all that could be desired. Already she had met the object of her
little masquerade, and it was charming to see the alacrity with which
John Arthur placed himself in the snare set for him by these
plotters, and how gracefully he submitted as the cords tightened
around him.
Over and over again Davlin thanked his lucky star for having so
ordered his goings that, on his previous visit, he had never been
brought into immediate contact with John Arthur. Over and again he
congratulated himself that his meetings with Madeline had been kept
their own secret, for he knew nothing of the watchful, jealous eyes of
old Hagar.
On a fine summer morning, or rather "forenoon," for Mrs. Torrance was
a luxurious widow, and her "brother," Mr. Davlin, not at all enamored
of early rising,--on a fine forenoon, then, the pair sat in the little
hotel parlor, partaking of breakfast. They relished it, too, if one
might judge from the occasional pretty little ejaculations, expressive
of enjoyment and appreciation, that fell from the lips of the widow.
"More cream, monsieur? Oh, but this fruit is delicious! And I believe
there is a grand difference in the qualities of city and country
cream."
"The difference in the favor of the country living, eh? I say, Co.,
don't you think your appetite is rather better than is exactly
expected, or in order, for a widow in the second stage of her grief?"
Things were moving just now as Mr. Davlin approved, and he felt
inclined to be jocular.
Cora laughed merrily. Then holding up a pretty, berry-stained hand,
she said, with mock solemnity, "That is the last, my greatly shocked
brother. But didn't you inform Mr. Arthur that we should accept of his
kind offer to survey the woods and grounds of Oakley in his company,
and isn't this the day, and almost the hour?"
"So it is; I had forgotten."
It was not long before the pair were equipped, and sauntering slowly
in the direction of the Oakley estate.
Their morning's enterprise was more than rewarded, and the cause of
the widow was in a fair way to victory, when, after having politely
refused to lunch with Mr. Arthur on that day, and gracefully promised
to dine at Oakley on the next day but one, they bade adieu to that
flattered and fascinated gentleman, and left him at the entrance of
his grounds.
Then they sauntered slowly back, keeping to the wooded path. Arriving
at the fallen tree, the scene of so many interviews between Madeline
and Lucian, Cora seated herself on the mossy trunk and announced her
determination to rest.
Accordingly her escort threw himself upon the soft grass, and betook
himself to his inevitable cigar, while he closed his eyes and allowed
the vision of Madeline to occupy the place now usurped by Cora. Very
absorbing the vision must have been, for he gave an almost nervous
start as Cora's voice broke the stillness:
"Lucian, did you ever see this runaway daughter of Mr. Arthur's?"
Lucian started unmistakably now. Then he employed himself in pulling
up tufts of the soft grass, pretending not to have heard.
"Lucian!" impatiently.
"Eh, Co., what is it?" affecting a yawn.
"I ask, did you ever see this Madeline Payne, who ran away recently?"
"I? Oh, no. Old fellow always kept her shut up too close, I fancy.
They say she was pretty, and you are the first pretty woman I have
seen in these parts, Co."
[Illustration: "More cream, Monsieur?"--page 101.]
"Well, then, I'm sorry you didn't," quoth Cora, "for from motives of
delicacy I really don't care to inquire of others, and I have just
curiosity enough to wish to know how she looked."
"Sorry I can't enlighten you, Co. Get it all out of the old fellow
after the joyful event."
"Umph! Well, _that_ business prospers, _mon brave_. We shall win, I
think, as usual."
"Yes; and never easier, Co."
"Well, I don't anticipate much trouble in landing our fish. But come
along, Lucian, this romantic dell might make you forget luncheon; it
can't have that effect on me."
Cora gathered her draperies about her, and prepared to quit the little
grove, her companion following half reluctantly.