SOME DAYS OF WAITING.
Doctor Vaughan had written that he could find his way with ease to
Nurse Hagar's cottage, and he did.
Swinging himself down upon the dark end of the platform, when the
evening train puffed into Bellair village, he crossed the track, and
walked rapidly along the path that led in the direction of the
cottage. He strode on until the light from the cottage window gleamed
out upon the night, and his way led over the field. Half way between
the stile and the cottage, a form, evidently that of a woman, appeared
before him, and coming in his direction.
The figure came nearer, and a voice, that was certainly not
Madeline's, said: "Is the gentleman going to old Hagar's cottage?"
"Are you Hagar?" replied Clarence, Yankee fashion.
"I am Hagar; and you are?"
"Doctor Vaughan."
"Then pass on, sir; the one you seek is there."
And the old woman waved her hand toward the light and hobbled on.
Clarence stared after her for a moment; but the darkness had devoured
her, and he resumed his way toward the cottage.
In hastening to meet a friend we naturally have, in our mind, a
picture. Our friend will look so, or so. Thus with Clarence Vaughan.
Expecting to meet a pair of deep, sad, beautiful eyes, lifted to his
own; to behold a fair forehead shadowed by soft, shining curls; judge
of Clarence's surprise when the opened door revealed to him a small
being of no shape in particular; a very black head of hair, surmounted
by an ugly maid's cap; and a pair of unearthly, staring blue glasses.
Madeline had chosen to appear "in character" at this interview. She
intended to keep her own personality out of sight, and she felt that
she needed the aid and concealment that her disguise would afford. She
would give Claire's schemes no vantage ground.
So Madeline Payne was carefully hidden away under the wig and pigment
and padding; and Celine Leroque courteseyed demurely as she held the
door open to admit him, and said:
"Good evening, _Monsieur le Docteur_; you perceive I am here before
you."
"Rather, I don't perceive it. _You_ are here before me in a double
sense of the word; yes. And I suppose you call yourself--"
"Celine Leroque, at your service; maid-in-waiting to Miss Arthur, of
Oakley."
Doctor Vaughan laughed.
"Well, won't you shake hands with an American of no special
importance, Celine Leroque?"
She placed her hand in his and then drew forward a chair.
"I hope you found no difficulty in getting out to-night?" he said,
sitting down and looking at her with a half-amused, half-grave
countenance.
"None whatever; I have been suffering with a sick-headache all day."
"And you can get in again unseen?"
"Easily; in the evening the servants are all below stairs."
"But what an odd disguise! Do they never question your blue glasses?"
"Not half so much as they would question the eyes without them. They
believe my eyes were ruined by close application to fine needle-work.
And then--" she pushed up the glasses a trifle, and he saw that the
eyelid, and a line underneath the eye, were artistically
_rouged_--"they all acknowledge that my eyes look very weak."
"I fancy they'll find those eyes have looked too sharply for them, by
and by."
She laughed lightly. "I hope so."
Sitting there in her prim disguise, the girl felt glad to gaze upon
him; felt as if, look as much as she would, she was gazing from a safe
distance.
Dr. Vaughan came straight to the point of his visit, beginning by
requesting a repetition of such portion of the facts she had
discovered as related most particularly to the two men, Davlin and
Percy. Then he made his suggestion. To his surprise it was a welcome
one to the girl.
"That is just what I have had in mind," she said, thoughtfully. "After
reflecting, I have changed my plans somewhat, and I don't see my way
quite so clearly as before."
He was looking at her attentively, but asked no questions.
"Since I came from the city," she resumed, with some hesitation, "I
have thought that I would be glad to talk again with all of you. But
it won't do to incur the risk of more absences, for if I do not
mistake the signs, things will be pretty lively up there," nodding in
the direction of Oakley, "before many days. So perhaps we had better
see what our two heads can develop in the way of counterplot, and you
can make known the result to Olive."
"If your own invention will not serve, I fear mine will be at an utter
loss. But you know how glad I shall be to share your confidence."
"My invention must serve," she said, firmly, and quite ignoring the
latter clause of his speech; "and so must yours. You see, my plan
before going to the city was a comparatively simple one. I intended to
work my way into the confidence of Mrs. John Arthur. Failing in that,
Hagar must have been reinstated, and then the _denouement_ would have
been easy: to get possession of specimens of the medicine prescribed
for Mr. Arthur; to hunt down this sham doctor they are to introduce
into the house; to show John Arthur the manner of wife he has; to make
my own terms with him, and then expose and turn out the whole pack.
But all this must be changed."
"Changed? And how?"
"I can't turn them out of Oakley. I must keep them there, every one of
them, at any cost."
Dr. Vaughan looked puzzled. "We can't allow them to kill that old man,
not even to vindicate poetical justice," he said, gravely.
"No; we can't allow just that. But don't you see, if we turn these
people away now, we defeat a chief end and aim--the liberation of
Philip Girard?"
"True."
"Well, this is why I have changed my plan."
He looked at her with an admiration that was almost homage.
"And you will give up your own vengeance, for the sake of Olive and
her happiness?"
She laughed oddly. "Not at all. I only defer it, to make it the more
complete. Now, listen to what I propose to do, and see if you can
suggest anything safer or better."
And then she unfolded a plan that made Clarence Vaughan start in
amazement, but which, after it was fully revealed, he could not amend
nor condemn. He could see no other way by which all that they aimed at
could be accomplished.
"Of course, the plan has its risks," concluded the girl. "But we could
try no other scheme without incurring the same, or greater. And I
_believe_ that I shall not fail."
"I wish it were not necessary that you should undergo so much; think
what it will be for you," gently.
"Oh, for me, ..." indifferently; "I shall be less of a spy, and more
of an actress,--that is all."
"Then I shall set the detectives at work?"
"Immediately."
"Have you any further instructions, any clue, to give them?"
"Nothing; it is to be simply a research. Neither must know to what end
the information is desired. It will be better to employ your men from
different Agencies, so that one may not know of the other, or his
business."
"And is there nothing more I can do?"
"Nothing, for the present. When once we get these men together, we
shall all have our hands full. Then you can help me, perhaps, as I
suggested."
"Well," sighing, and looking at his watch, "it's a strange business,
and a difficult, for a young girl like you. But we are in your hands;
you are worth a thousand such as I."
"Nonsense," she said, almost angrily. Then, abruptly, "When does
Claire return to Baltimore?"
He started and flushed under her gaze. "I--I really don't know."
"Then, as my brother, I command you to know all about Claire. She is
my special charge to you. And you are to tell her, from me, that I
won't have her go away."
"Then I must do all in my power to detain her? Your command will have
more effect than all of my prayers," he said, softly.
"Well, keep on reiterating my commands and your prayers, then; by and
by she won't be able to distinguish the one from the other. What time
is it?"
He smiled at the sudden change of tone and subject. "Half-past nine,"
he said.
While the words were on his lips, Old Hagar entered.
Clearly it was time to end the interview. Doctor Vaughan must be ready
for the return train, which flew cityward soon, and Celine Leroque
must not be too long absent. So there were a few words more about
their plans, a few courteous sentences addressed to Hagar by Doctor
Vaughan, and then they separated.
The next day two men were at work,--following like sleuth hounds the
trail on which they were put, unravelling slowly, slowly, the webs of
the past that had been spun by the two men who were to be hunted down.
And now came a time of comparative dullness at Oakley. Even eventful
lives do not always pace onward to the inspiring clang of trumpet and
drum. There is the bivouac and the time of rest, even though sleeping
upon their arms, for all the hosts that were ever marshalled to
battle.
[Illustration: "Well, it's a strange business and a difficult."--page
261.]
Celine Leroque found life rather more dreary than she had expected
during these days of inaction. After all, it is easier to be brave
than to be patient. So, in spite of her courage and her
self-sacrifice, she was restless and unhappy.
And she was not alone in her restlessness. It is curious to note what
diverse causes produce the same effects. Cora Arthur was restless,
very restless. The fruit of her labor was in her hands, but it was
vapid, tasteless, unsatisfying. What _her_ soul clamored for, was the
opera, the contact of kindred spirits, the rush and whirl, the smoke
and champagne, and giddiness of the city; the card-won gold, and
painted folly that made the be-all and end-all of life to such as she.
She did not lose sight of the usefulness she trusted to find in Celine
Leroque, however. During these days of _ennui_ and quietude, the two
came to a very good understanding; not all at once, and not at all
definite. Only, by degrees, Cora became convinced that Celine Leroque
cherished a very laudable contempt for her would-be-girlish mistress,
and that she was becoming rather weary in her service. Once, indeed,
the girl had said, as if unable to restrain herself, and while
dressing Mrs. Cora's yellow hair--a task which she professed to
delight in:
"Ah! madame, if only it was _you_ who were my mistress! It is a
pleasure to dress a beautiful mistress, but to be constantly at war
against nature, to make an old one young--faugh! it is labor."
And Cora had been much amused and had held out a suggestion that, in
case of any rupture between mistress and maid, the latter should apply
to her.
But if existence was a pain to Celine, and a weariness to Cora, it was
anguish unutterable to Edward Percy. He would have been glad to put a
long span of miles between his inamorata and himself had he not felt
that, with Cora in the same house as his fair one, it were more
discreet to be on the ground, and watch over his prey pretty closely.
But to this man, who made love to every pretty woman as a child eats
_bon bons_, the task of wooing where his eye was not pleased, his ear
was not soothed, and his vanity not in the least flattered, was
intensely wearisome.