THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
No reason to tell Mary now that it was Mrs. Speed who was speaking.
She recognised the tired, faded voice by this time. But the other
voice was still more familiar.
"That's bad," the man was saying, "why didn't you let me know that
things had got to this pass? I daresay I could have helped you."
"No, you would have promised to," Mrs. Speed cried, "and disappointed
me at the last moment. All my savings have gone into your pocket; you
have wheedled everything out of me till I haven't so much as a penny
left. And now you come here for more of those letters! That you are up
to no good I feel certain. I know by your dress and style that you
have had the command of money. What are you doing there?"
"Never you mind," the man said sulkily, "you'll know all in good time.
I'm playing for a big stake, and for once in a way it has turned up
trumps. Only; I want that particular letter. When I get the letter I
can answer certain questions. Give me the letter, and I'll pledge my
word that within a week you shall have all the money you require. Only
you are to ask no questions, and you are not to move away from here,
mind that!"
"Oh, if I could get away from here!" Mrs. Speed sobbed. "Give me a
chance of earning my living, and that is all I ask for. I'll ask the
agent to give me another week, though I am afraid he won't do it. I've
put him off too often."
It was perhaps wrong of Mary to stand listening, but some fascination
held her to the spot. She had a strong desire to see who the man with
the familiar voice was.
"Then you are going to let me have the letter?" he said.
"I suppose so," came the weary response. "Never a thing yet that you
made up your mind to have that you didn't coax out of me. But the
letters are hidden in a box at the top of the house, and they will
take some finding. Come again tomorrow at the same time, and I'll see
what I can do for you. But if I consulted my own inclination I should
go and see Lady Dashwood and tell her everything. I am sick of this
intrigue and mystery."
The man said something in a soothing kind of voice, and then followed
a sound like a kiss. Then a match was struck, and the heavy, dense
atmosphere became impregnated with the smell of fresh tobacco, after
which the dining-room door opened and the man came into the hall.
Mary walked swiftly back to the foot of the stairs. Without being
noticed now, she had a good view of the man's face. She started, but
managed to check the exclamation that rose to her lips. No wonder that
the voice had been familiar to her. For she was gazing at the dark,
sinister features of Sir Vincent Dashwood!
It was only for a moment, and then the front door opened and the man
swaggered out. Without troubling any further about her milk, Mary
crept up the stairs again. She had plenty now to occupy her thoughts.
What was that man doing here, and what letter was it that he was so
anxious to obtain? And why had he so powerful an influence over Mrs.
Speed? It was open to Mary to ask the question, but she decided to do
nothing of the kind.
After all, questions of this sort would be worse than useless. They
would only arouse the suspicion and perhaps incur the curiosity of
Mrs. Speed. Still, the whole thing was a most extraordinary
coincidence--not quite so much of a coincidence perhaps if Mary had
looked into the mind of Ralph Darnley?
But as the girl could not do so, she had to figure out the problem as
best she could. She recalled vividly to mind now the strange
suggestions made by Lady Dashwood as to a great sin in the past with
which she was intimately connected. And here, according to Mrs. Speed,
the latter was an accomplice either before or after the fact. And why
did the man who came here in such urgent need of a certain letter
require that document, seeing that he had been accepted all around as
Sir Vincent Dashwood?
Mary was still pondering the problem when Connie came back. The latter
was her own bright and cheerful self again, she had done a good
morning's work, and she had been paid for it to the extent of nearly a
sovereign. She was inclined to take a light view of life. She made no
allusion to the portfolio, for which Mary was grateful.
"I am very hungry," she said. "How nice this pressed beef is, and the
lettuce, too! I have had better, but as things go in London they are
very good."
Mary was silent. The beef was stringy and a little dry, the lettuce
wilted and yellow. In her mind's eye the girl could see the luncheon
table of the dower house at this particular moment; she could see the
dusky, cool room, with the breeze coming off the flowers in the
garden. She could see the snowy cloth and the crystal and the salad,
cool and refreshing in the great silver bowl. There would be
nectarines and peaches too from the ripe south walls of the garden.
The whole atmosphere of it flooded Mary's soul and brought the tears
to her eyes.
"You are homesick," Connie said softly; "I used to be the same at one
time. And, of course, this luncheon is not at all nice, only I like to
pretend that it is. But you shall tell me all about yourself when you
come to know me better. And you shall also tell me what luck you had
with the portfolio this morning."
"I had no luck at all," Mary said presently, "nothing but slights and
insults, rebuffs and bitter humiliations. I might have been a servant
girl for all the civility I received. And even one man, who seemed to
have a heart in his breast, told me to come home and burn the lot."
"Wherefore you bounced out of the shop indignantly," Connie laughed.
"Indeed I didn't, I was too utterly crushed and sorrowful for that. I
crept here and made a bonfire of my precious drawings, and I am ready
to ask your pardon for the cold way in which I accepted your good
advice this morning. There!"
It was a great deal for Mary to say, a confession that she had failed,
that she was utterly wrong, the like of which she had never made
before. Her face was flushed now and her lips were all trembling.
Connie looked at her with undisguised admiration.
"You have won a greater victory than you know," she said quietly. "It
is very hard for anyone brought up as you have been to admit a
failure. I had a letter from Mr. Darnley this morning in which he told
me a good deal about you. I hope the day will come when you will learn
to appreciate Ralph Darnley properly."
"I think I do," Mary said, with the red mounting to her cheeks. "He is
a good man, and I owe him a great deal--my life itself on two
occasions. But he--he did not quite understand."
"Didn't he?" Connie asked, her eyes dancing with mischief, "he is an
audacious man. He thinks that he is good enough for any girl. And so
he is, bless him! Oh, you will learn your lesson in time, my dear. And
when you do, you will be one of the luckiest girls in the world. To be
the wife of a man like that, ah!"
"You think so highly of him as that?" Mary asked.
"Ay, I do, indeed. Oh, how I could love that man if only he cared for
me! I could open my heart to him tomorrow, and thank God fasting for a
good man's love. Fancy the sweet rest and peacefulness of it all,
fancy laying down the weary struggle, the fearful dread of the needs
of the morrow with the assurance that you had that man to protect you!
But your eyes will be opened in time, you will come to see that love
is the best of all things."
Connie had dropped her voice almost to a whisper and her dark eyes
were moist. Then she seemed to wipe away the tears with a smile and
was her sunny self again.
"Please don't laugh at my sentimental manner," she said. "Let us talk
about you and your affairs. We may take it for granted that you have
abandoned all idea of making a fortune out of the milk-stool order of
art. You feel quite sure that you could make nothing of my kind of
work."
"I should absolutely hate it," Mary shuddered. "Please don't be
offended."
"Oh, I am not in the least offended. I felt just like you at first.
Did you ever try your hand at designing? One or two girls I know do
well at that."
Mary didn't know; as a matter of fact, she had never tried her hand at
anything of the kind; but she was perfectly willing to try. A horrible
feeling of helplessness was growing upon her; she wondered what she
would have done if Fate and Ralph Darnley had not thrown Connie and
her together. For the next hour or two she tried her hand at designs
of various kinds, only to feel that she made but a poor hand at the
business. By tea-time her head was aching terribly and she dropped
into the armchair with a sigh of misery.
"They are pretty bad," Connie said in her candid way; "we shall have
to wait a little longer before we find your proper vocation. For the
present you will have to fall back upon colouring cards--Christmas
cards, and post cards, and the like. That pretty chocolate-box type of
work of yours will do admirably for that class of thing. You shall do
a few specimen cards tomorrow, and I'll give you the address of a man
who will commission more. Only it is terribly hard, you will get paid
at the rate of half-a-crown a hundred."
Mary's heart sank within her. Half-a-crown a hundred! At that rate it
would be impossible for her to make more than fifteen shillings a
week. She pointed out the fact to Connie, who agreed with a cheerful
nod.
"You have worked it out pretty accurately," she said. "There are
hundreds of girls who do it, and the worst of the thing is that so
many girls can earn pocket-money that way who have no need to do
anything at all. It is the same with typewriting, the same with
everything. And, after all, it is quite possible to live on fifteen
shillings a week."