THE HOUR OF RECKONING
The cheerless weather that had prevailed during the last few days had, as
Margaret had foreseen it would, prevented Eleanor from spending her
afternoons in the little summer-house, as had been her custom since she
had come to Rose Cottage. For bad though the mist was in the town, it was
worse on the downs, and the excessive rawness and chilliness of the
atmosphere had laid poor Mrs. Murray low with a very bad attack of
rheumatism.
As a rule, Eleanor slept soundly from the moment she laid her head on the
pillow until she was roused in the morning, but a few nights ago she had
been wakened by hearing Mrs. Murray moving about her room. Her first
inclination had been to turn round and fall asleep again, but fearing
that Mrs. Murray was ill, she had got rather reluctantly out of bed, put
on her dressing-gown, and after tapping at Mrs. Murray's door, a useless
proceeding, as the poor lady was far too deaf to hear her, had opened it
and gone in. She had found Mrs. Murray sitting in her armchair, with her
face twisted with pain, rubbing lotion into her rheumatic knee. The
candles, which were burning low, showed that she had been awake for some
hours.
When she perceived that she had wakened Eleanor, her distress was great,
and she begged of her to go back to bed at once.
"My dear," she said, as she poured a fresh supply of embrocation into the
hollow of her hand and set to work again, "I never disturb any one in the
night if I can help it. Oh dear, how selfish it is of me to keep you out
of your bed like this!" This last protest was uttered when Eleanor,
taking the bottle from her hand, knelt down on the floor and began to
rub the swollen knee.
For the sight of the deaf old lady sitting up in pain and alone, during
the night had roused a sudden wave of pity in Eleanor's rather hard
heart. A swift feeling of compunction smote her as she reflected how
little thought she had taken of Mrs. Murray since she had come to live in
her house. All her kindness had been accepted as a matter of course, and
when Eleanor found that in return for that kindness no claim of any sort
was made upon her, she had been conscious of a feeling of relief. She
remembered how she had thought that her time would be far too fully
occupied in taking advantage of all the lessons she was going to get to
have any over to spend in providing companionship for Mrs. Murray.
For over half an hour Eleanor knelt and rubbed gently and steadily, first
with one hand and then with the other, and though Mrs. Murray entreated
her over and over again to go back to bed, Eleanor paid no heed to her.
"Think of your studies, my dear," Mrs. Murray said at last; "you won't
feel fresh for them, and that will distress you so much to-morrow."
Eleanor winced. In what a selfish light must she have appeared to Mrs.
Murray all these weeks if the latter could suppose that the fear of being
too sleepy to do her lessons to-morrow would send her post-haste back to
bed now!
"Bother my studies!" she said energetically, and Mrs. Murray seeing the
uselessness of further protest said no more. But at last she declared
that the pain was gone for the moment, and that if she got into bed
quickly she might fall asleep before it returned. So Eleanor helped her
into bed, and had the satisfaction of seeing her doze off before she left
the room. It would be rather too much to say that Eleanor returned to her
bed an hour and a half after she had left it with a totally changed
character, but she did go back with a clearer recognition of her
besetting sin of selfishness than she had ever had before.
"It's always been Eleanor Carson first, Eleanor Carson second, and
Eleanor Carson third with me," she thought, "and the rest of the field
nowhere. I take all and I give nothing. I am selfish and hard and narrow.
Miss McDonald knew it. That was what she meant when she said one day that
selfish people didn't know what they missed, and that I should be a
happier girl if I thought more of others. Oh dear! there I go again; I
don't seem able to leave myself out of consideration for a moment. And
if I am only going to be unselfish for the sake of becoming a nicer
character myself, I don't see where the true nobility of unselfishness
comes in."
Eleanor fell asleep before she had worked that question out to her
satisfaction, and all the next day she was too busy practising the
quality to have much time to think about it. Madame Martelli had sent up
in the morning to say that the sudden change in the weather had given her
such a bad cold that she would be unable to receive her pupil until
further notice, and as Mrs. Murray had wisely resolved to stay in bed for
a few days, Eleanor, with a total disregard for her studies of which a
few days ago she really would not have believed herself capable, devoted
all her energies to nursing her. She carried all her meals up to her, sat
with her, rubbed her knee, gave her her medicine, brought her hot
bottles, and generally made a great fuss over her. And Mrs. Murray was so
appreciative of all she did that Eleanor told her ruefully she was
spoiling it all by being too grateful.
"For, you see," she explained as Mrs. Murray not unnaturally looked much
perplexed at this remark, "I wanted to be unselfish and improve my
character; but you make it such a pleasure to do anything for you, that
if I was really to practise self-denial I would go away and leave you to
Hannah."
"All the time I have been with you," she went on suddenly dropping her
tone of half-whimsical complaint, and speaking very earnestly, "I have
taken all and given nothing. And people who do that must have such hard,
selfish natures that I feel dreadfully ashamed of myself."
"My dear, it has been an infinite pleasure to have you with me," said
Mrs. Murray, when she had gathered the drift of Eleanor's remark.
"Though, owing to my being so deaf, and you being always so busy, we have
not perhaps been much together; still, I have enjoyed having you in the
house more than I can say. You have been a fresh interest in my rather
restricted life, and I shall feel parting with you dreadfully. Ah, how
I wish your grandfather would let me keep you altogether! But that, of
course, I cannot expect. Did he give you any idea how long he meant you
to stay?"
"I--I don't remember," Eleanor said, flushing scarlet. And to herself she
thought sadly how completely Mrs. Murray's good opinion of her would
change when she knew how she had deceived her. That reflection was really
her first step towards repentance, and she was astonished and not a
little dismayed to find how rapidly her newly awakened conscience was
driving her along to a point where confession would become essential to
her own peace of mind. But she had some distance yet to travel before she
reached it, and as it happened she missed for ever the opportunity of
making a voluntary confession of her misdeeds, for on the afternoon of
the day on which Margaret left The Cedars, Mr. Anstruther made a totally
unexpected appearance at Rose Cottage.
Mrs. Murray had come downstairs for the first time, and she and Eleanor
were sitting over the fire about half-past four enjoying a cosy tea, when
the sound of wheels grating on the gravel was heard, and Eleanor saw a
cab draw up at the front door. Visitors on such a day when the mist was
so thick that even the other end of the lawn was shrouded from view, were
totally unexpected, and Eleanor glancing out of the window wondered who
the brave people might be who would venture up on to the downs in such
weather. But when she saw that the cab was a station cab, and that its
passenger was a tall, thin, elderly man, her heart gave a great jump, and
then suddenly seemed to sink away into her shoes. She felt sure that this
visitor was Mr. Anstruther. She looked at Mrs. Murray, who was just
unfolding the _Times_ and preparing herself for an hour or so of peaceful
enjoyment. She had heard neither the wheels of the cab on the gravel, nor
the ring at the bell, nor did she even look up until Hannah, who had
ushered Mr. Anstruther into the room, crossed it herself, and bending
over her mistress pronounced his name clearly in her ear.
Eleanor meanwhile stood immovable on the hearth-rug, bracing herself to
meet the hour of reckoning that had come so swiftly and in such a totally
unannounced manner upon her. She watched Mrs. Murray greet her old friend
with mingled surprise and pleasure, and then saw her look with perplexity
from him to herself as she stood motionless before the fire. Why, her
face mutely asked, did they not greet one another? Why did he merely
glance at his granddaughter and bow slightly in his stiff, old-fashioned
way as if to a stranger? and why did she give no greeting at all to her
grandfather?
"Margaret," she said at last, when the pause had lasted a full thirty
seconds, "do you not see your grandfather, dear?"
Mr. Anstruther fairly jumped at that, and shot a keen glance at Eleanor,
who still stood rigidly silent with the curious feeling strong on her
that the direction of affairs did not lie with her at all. This stern old
man who was eyeing her so severely would bring them to a crisis far more
swiftly than she was capable of doing. From her expressionless face he
looked straight into Mrs. Murray's puzzled, perturbed one. Obviously his
first thought was that her mind was as deficient as her hearing. What he
saw seemed to convince him that such was not the case, and very
deliberately he bent down and spoke loudly and clearly in her ear.
"That girl," pointing a lean accusing finger at Eleanor, "is not my
granddaughter Margaret. I never saw her before. Where is Margaret?"
[Illustration: "THAT GIRL," POINTING WITH A LEAN ACCUSING FINGER AT
ELEANOR, "IS NOT MY DAUGHTER MARGARET."]
"My dear, is it true?" said Mrs. Murray in a bewildered tone. "I don't
understand. If you are not Margaret Anstruther, who are you, and where is
she?"
"That is precisely what I wish to know," broke in Mr. Anstruther sternly.
"What is this girl doing here, and where is my granddaughter? Do you
really mean to say," he added, "that Margaret has not been here at all?
What is your name, and what are you doing masquerading here in hers?"
Though Mr. Anstruther in his anger had spoken loudly, he had not used the
tone of voice suited to a deaf person, and it was pitiful to see the
anxious way in which Mrs. Murray looked from one to the other, striving
to hear what was said. So realising that the kindest thing she could do
for her now was to tell her story quickly and not allow Mr. Anstruther to
drag it from her by means of questions which Mrs. Murray could not hear,
Eleanor knelt down by her chair and put her lips close to her ear.
"Shall I tell you everything from the beginning?" she said. "I can do it
quickly. My name is Eleanor Carson, and on the 28th of July I was on my
way from London to Seabourne to take up a position as holiday governess
there, which had been offered to me for the summer holidays. I had to
wait at Carden Junction for over an hour and a half, and as I was sitting
in the waiting-room a girl came in. We began to talk presently, and she
told me her name was Margaret Anstruther and that she was on her way to
Windy Gap to stay with a Mrs. Murray, an old friend of her grandfather's,
and she was to spend the summer learning Italian and having singing
lessons with Madame Martelli. I envied her from the bottom of my heart,
and said I wished I was in her shoes, and she said she wished she were in
mine. And so in the end we decided to change. She became Eleanor Carson
and went on to The Cedars, and I became Margaret Anstruther, and came
here."
"The audacity, the unparalleled insolence, the unheard-of irregularity of
the whole proceeding astounds me!" said Mr. Anstruther. "And where is my
granddaughter now?"
"She is still with Mrs. Danvers at a house called The Cedars, Durham
Road, Seabourne," said Eleanor.
"And you mean to say, Charlotte," Mr. Anstruther said loudly, "that you
had no idea of the deception that had been practiced on you?"
"No, indeed, how could I have?" said Mrs. Murray, who still seemed almost
overpowered by the astonishing revelation that had been made to her. "You
must remember that I had never seen your granddaughter, so how could I
know?"
"Of your share in this disgraceful business it is not necessary to
speak," said Mr. Anstruther, giving Eleanor a glance of the very
strongest disapproval and dislike, "but Margaret's share in it concerns
me deeply, and first of all I must apologise to you," he added, turning
to Mrs. Murray, "in her name for the liberty she has dared to take with
your most kind and hospitable house. To send a stranger into it in her
place, under her name, and to go off under an assumed one to total
strangers seems to be incredible. I can really hardly grasp the amazing
fact now, that Margaret, whom I have brought up so carefully, and who has
had her every action regulated by me since her infancy, should at the
very first opportunity break loose in this manner." He gazed with renewed
disapproval at Eleanor. "You must have gained an enormous influence over
her in a very short space of time to have been able to persuade her to
act in such an outrageous manner."
"It was her idea; she persuaded me into it," said Eleanor, the words
slipping out of her mouth unawares. Then fearing that they might sound as
though she wished to lay all the blame upon Margaret, she added
impulsively, "But it was I who kept her to it so long. She wanted to give
up the idea weeks ago, and confess everything, after she had only tried
it for two or three days, but I would not let her go back from her word.
And so though she has not been nearly so happy with young people as she
thought somehow she must be, she has bravely stayed on there for my
sake."
Was it merely her imagination or did the severity of Mr. Anstruther's
face relax somewhat as he heard that his granddaughter had not been as
happy as she had hoped to be? His tone, however, when he spoke again
had lost none of its former anger. "Your shameful audacity in
impersonating my granddaughter and thrusting yourself, uninvited, into a
house in which you have no right, deserves to be severely punished. I am
not at all sure that such an offence is not punishable by law. How would
you like to find yourself in prison? Mrs. Murray could prosecute you if
she liked, and if she takes my advice she will."
"And would you advise Mrs. Danvers to prosecute Margaret?" Mrs. Murray
asked.
"Eh--er--that is a different matter altogether," Mr. Anstruther answered,
thoroughly taken aback by the unexpected remark.
"Yes, but she, too, impersonated somebody else and thrust herself into
a house to which she was not invited," said Mrs. Murray, "so we could
hardly put one in prison and leave the other out, could we?"
"Of course, Charlotte, if you are disposed to look upon the matter
leniently, nothing more remains for me to say," Mr. Anstruther said in a
displeased tone. "I gather, then, that you are not even angry with Miss
Carson for her treatment of you. Certainly I have not yet heard you utter
one word of blame to her, and when you consider how callously she has
deceived you all these weeks no condemnation could be too strong for
her."
"I don't believe you are callous, my dear," said Mrs. Murray, looking
gently into Eleanor's downcast face.
"Oh, I am ashamed, so dreadfully ashamed!" Eleanor said, "when I think of
all your kindness to me, and of how little right I had to any of it."
"And so you ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Mr. Anstruther. "But,
however, as I said before, your share in the matter has not so much to do
with me as my granddaughter's has. I am going now to see her, and you
must come with me. I do not intend to lose sight of you until I have
found her. How do I know that you are telling me the truth, and that she
is at this particular house you mention?"
Though Eleanor's eyes flashed at this remark, she recognised the justice
of it and received it in silence. After all, why should Mr. Anstruther
believe anything she said?
"Yes, go, my dear," said Mrs. Murray, and Eleanor rose obediently.
"And if you will take my advice Charlotte, you will get your housemaid to
pack her boxes, so that she can leave for good and all the first thing
to-morrow," Mr. Anstruther said before she was well out of the room.
He was standing in the hall when she came down with her hat and coat on,
and he motioned her to precede him into the cab, but giving her head a
little shake, Eleanor opened the drawing-room door and, after hesitating
for a moment on the threshold, went in. Mrs. Murray was sitting before
the fire crying silently. At the sight of her tears Eleanor's hesitation
vanished and she ran across the room and flung herself on her knees and
put both her arms in a protecting fashion round the old lady's neck.
"Don't cry about me," she said. "Oh, I am so sorry, so ashamed! I ought
never to have done it."
"And I thought you were such a dear girl," said Mrs. Murray, "so good,
so straightforward, so merry, and charming. And to think that you were
deceiving me all the time. Oh, it is bitter to be disappointed in any one
like this! Tell me what tempted you to do it. Mr. Anstruther says it was
the thought of living in comparative ease and comfort for a time, and so
you sent Margaret to the drudgery of a governess's life in your place."
"No, no," said Eleanor vehemently; "I may be selfish and deceitful, but I
am not so calculating as all that. Besides, Margaret has been made no
drudge of. As far as mere comfort, food, and good rooms, and so on goes,
she has been treated quite as well there as I have here. It was the
singing lessons that tempted me. I did want to have my voice trained so
much, and when I heard Madame Martelli was going to teach Margaret I just
could not help coming in her place."
Though Eleanor was scarcely aware of it herself, her voice and manner had
altered when she began to speak of her singing. Neither were any longer
repentant or humbled. She spoke as if she were trying to excuse even to
justify, her conduct.
"You are neither ashamed nor sorry," said Mr. Anstruther's stern voice
from the doorway, "so do not seek to deceive Mrs. Murray on that point.
Will you kindly come now. I am waiting."
But when Mr. Anstruther told the driver that he wished to go into
Seabourne, the man refused, rather sulkily, to take him across the downs
in that mist, "to say nothing of my being stranded miles away from home,
then," he said; "but I'll take you back to the station, and from there
you can train into Seabourne almost as quick."
So they drove down to Chailfield Station where they were fortunate enough
just to catch a train, and on arriving at Seabourne station they took
another cab up to The Cedars. During the whole way Mr. Anstruther spoke
no single word to his companion, and Eleanor, glancing from time to time
at his grim face, fairly shivered as she thought of how Margaret was
going to catch it.