AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
It was in the midst of an astonished silence that Mr. Anstruther,
followed by Eleanor, walked up the length of the long drawing-room
towards Mrs. Danvers, the young people making way for them as they
advanced. When he had arrived opposite her he gave her a stiff bow, which
she returned with her eyes fixed on the girl, who had the same name, and
yet was not the Eleanor Carson they knew. It was very puzzling, she
thought.
"When I have explained the reasons for my presence here this evening, you
will agree with me, I trust, that no apology is required for what, so
far, must seem to you an unwarrantable intrusion," he began in his most
deliberate manner.
"Certainly," murmured Mrs. Danvers, rather vaguely, though she meant, of
course, that no apology was needed.
One of the boys--it was Noel--gave a little snigger, but when Mr.
Anstruther turned with raised eyebrows in his direction, Noel tried, but
without success, to look as if he had made no sound.
"I have come here," Mr. Anstruther resumed then, addressing himself once
more to Mrs. Danvers, "in search of my granddaughter Margaret, who, I
understand, has been living in your house in the capacity of holiday
governess since the 28th of July."
"Margaret Anstruther!" said Mrs. Danvers. "I am very sorry, but I have
never heard the name before."
"So I understand, madam," was the grim reply. "My granddaughter has been
known to you under the name of Eleanor Carson."
At that the excitement with which the entire family had been listening to
him could no longer be restrained, and they broke into a perfect chorus
of exclamations and questions. And high above them all Hilary's voice
could be heard saying over and over again, "I knew it; I knew it. Perhaps
you will believe me now. I always suspected that she was an imposter.
Now, perhaps, none of you will contradict me again about her being a
thief and a burglar."
Her persistent, exultant tone so dominated all her brothers' and sisters'
disjointed exclamations that she eventually silenced them, and her shrill
voice finished alone. And when at length she had done, it was to find Mr.
Anstruther's piercing eyes gazing attentively at her.
"Young lady," he said, and Eleanor, who had easily identified Hilary as
the member of the family whom Margaret liked least, exulted at the
thought that she was now going to get a taste of Mr. Anstruther's wrath,
"young lady, will you oblige me by repeating quietly and without any
display of excitement the extraordinary statement you have just made
relative to my granddaughter being a burglar."
But Hilary was not in the least daunted by his icy tones. Hot with
indignation at the recollection of the scorn with which her family had
received proof of her detective skill, she burst into an eager account of
all the suspicions she had entertained about Margaret, and though,
fortunately for herself, she did not again say anything about Colonel
Baker's silver, she wound up by thrusting the case containing the
necklace and the miniature into his hand.
"There," she said triumphantly, "I found that in her dressing bag this
afternoon, and when I taxed her with having stolen them, she said----"
"Yes, what did she say?"
"That they were hers."
Mr. Anstruther looked her up and down; then he took the open case from
her hand, snapped it to, and slipped it into his pocket.
"And so they are hers," he said. "Does your assertion that my
granddaughter is a burglar and a thief rest on any other evidence but
this?"
"N--no," faltered Hilary, feeling smaller and of less account than she
had ever felt in her life before.
"Then do me the favour of not addressing me again while I remain in this
house," said Mr. Anstruther; and turning his back upon the now thoroughly
discomfited girl, he resumed his conversation with Mrs. Danvers at the
point at which it had been broken off. And Hilary shrank back behind the
others, and received scant comfort for the snubbing she had got from any
of them.
"I did my best to stop you making such an awful goat of yourself,"
whispered Edward. "Couldn't you see that that precious bit of proof of
yours was just so much evidence for the other side? He had just told us
that Miss Carson's name was Margaret Anstruther, and Margaret was written
inside the locket, wasn't it, and the initial outside was 'A'?"
Hilary nodded, too mortified even to speak. Now that it was too late she
did see the silly, stupid blunder she had made, and she could have bitten
out her tongue with annoyance.
"As I was saying, madam," Mr. Anstruther had gone on directly he had
finished with Hilary, "my granddaughter has been known to you by the name
of Eleanor Carson. This," and he waved his hand in the direction of
Eleanor, "is the--the young lady whom you engaged to be your holiday
governess. She met my granddaughter at a railway station some way up
the line, and decided to change names and addresses. My granddaughter
came here, and Miss Carson went up to the house of a friend where I had
arranged for my granddaughter to stay; and she deceived this lady as
completely as my granddaughter has deceived you."
"Miss Carson not Miss Carson at all!" murmured Mrs. Danvers. "Well, of
all the extraordinary things I ever heard! And so it is you," glancing
at Eleanor, "that my old friend Miss McDonald sent down to me. Dear me,
who would have believed such a thing! I used to wonder sometimes why
Miss Carson--Miss Anstruther, I should say--was always so reluctant to
speak about Hampstead. Now I suppose it was because she had never been
there. Yes, that must have been it. And that accounts, too, for Miss
Carson--Miss Anstruther, I mean--speaking in such a queer, stiff way. I
think you said she had been brought up entirely at home. It used to seem
odd to me that Miss Carson--Miss Anstruther, I mean--should have been a
governess in a girls' school for years and years. I forget how long she
said she had been at Hampstead, but I know it was a long time, and yet
she did not understand a word of slang. That was when she first came
here. She has learned to speak rather differently now."
"I regret to hear it, madam," said Mr. Anstruther, who had, with
difficulty, restrained himself from interrupting Mrs. Danvers' rambling
speech. "I abhor slang in men, women, and boys. In girls I would not
tolerate it for one instant. But all this is beside the point. And now,
if you please, will you be so kind as to summon my granddaughter. I wish
to have an interview with her immediately."
His look was so exceedingly stern, his tone so fraught with ominous
meaning as to the reception his erring granddaughter would get when she
entered his presence, that scarcely one of the young Danvers but felt
glad that the terrific scolding he so evidently had in store for her must
inevitably be postponed for the present. And perhaps by the time he did
see her his wrath would have had time to cool.
"Where is my granddaughter?" he demanded.
"That is what we should all like to know, sir," said Geoffrey, "but what
none of us do know. We were talking of that when you came in. I am sorry
to say she has left our house. She has run away. The rest of us were out,
and she had a sort of quarrel--a misunderstanding--with one of my
sisters----"
"With the one, no doubt, who ransacked her boxes and called her a thief
and a burglar," interpolated Mr. Anstruther.
"And she ran straight out of the house. We are hoping she means to come
back, but we are very much afraid she will not."
"I am dreadfully upset about it," said Mrs. Danvers helplessly. "If you
had only come an hour--even half an hour--ago, you would have found her
here safe and sound. If anything happens to her--such a dreadful foggy
night as it is, too--I shall never forgive myself for not having known
she was going to run away, and stopped her."
"I fail to see any reason for anticipating that harm will come to her,"
said Mr. Anstruther harshly. He turned to Eleanor, "Perhaps you, Miss
Carson, as her accomplice in this disgraceful business, can inform us
where she would be likely to go?"
"She would come up to me," Eleanor answered; "that was the agreement we
had both made, that if either of us were suddenly found out, or couldn't
for any reason continue any longer to be the other, we would come and say
so at once. She knows the way quite well; she often came up in the
afternoon to see me."
"Yes, but it is one thing to find your way there on a summer's
afternoon," said Mrs. Danvers nervously, "but quite another on a night
like this. Why, the fog is now so thick that you can't see a yard in
front of you down here even; and if it is like that here, it will be ten
times worse up on the downs, and instead of finding her way to Windy Gap,
she would be far more likely to walk in the opposite direction."
"Oh, don't say that, mother, for the opposite direction would lead her
straight over the cliffs," said Geoffrey, and was immediately sorry for
his thoughtless remark when he saw how alarmed Mrs. Danvers became; "but
I agree with you that she is not very likely to arrive at Windy Gap in
such a fog as this, so I suggest that we turn ourselves into a search
party without loss of time, and go and look for her."
"One minute, if you please," said Mr. Anstruther; "when you say 'we,' to
whom do you refer?"
"Why, to my brothers and myself," Geoffrey answered; "you Noel, and Jack,
and Edward. Of course, you will all turn out and search?"
"Rather!" they answered in chorus, and from their eager voices it was
easy to see that they looked upon the expedition as a novel and
delightful adventure.
"I intend also to accompany you," said Mr. Anstruther.
"Just as you like, of course, sir," said Geoffrey, in rather a doubtful
tone, "but if you will excuse my saying so, we would get on quicker
without you. You see we know every yard of the way, and my idea was for
us all to scatter when we get to the top of the downs, and search
separately. We shall cover more ground in less time that way; for I feel
perfectly certain that though Miss Anstruther may have started from here
with every intention of getting to Windy Gap, she will never find it. The
mist will be almost as thick as a London fog, and she will get hopelessly
lost. But just on the chance that she may have got as far, I will go up
to Windy Gap on my motor bicycle and find out, for it is no good our
spending hours searching about on the downs if she is safe and sound
there all the time."
He left the room as he spoke, and the three younger boys slipped out
quickly after him, each fearing to be the last, lest Mr. Anstruther
should persist in accompanying them. The latter, however, recognising
that Geoffrey was right, and that his presence would be a hindrance
rather than a help, had already given up the idea of joining them.
For once, as Edward remarked, Geoffrey's motor bicycle happened to be in
full working order, and in less than five minutes he had his acetylene
lamp lighted, and had gone vigorously hooting down the drive. It was then
half-past seven; he expected, he said, to be easily back by a quarter
past eight with the news whether the fugitive had reached Windy Gap or
not. Edward, however, had shaken his head at that, and replied that, what
with the bad roads and the fog, he could not be back in anything like
that time.
Hardly had Geoffrey gone than the boys were joined by Maud.
"I am coming with you three," she said. "Mother has just asked Mr.
Anstruther to dinner, and though I'm pretty hungry, I don't fancy the
meal in his society. What a waxy old gentleman it is! and how mother will
catch it if she airs any of the slang she has picked up from us!"
The three boys laughed, and when presently, armed with lanterns and
bicycle lamps, they set off down the drive, they all amused themselves by
repeating and jesting over as many of Mr. Anstruther's caustic remarks as
they could remember. They agreed among themselves that poor Margaret must
indeed have an awful time of it with him, and that she was highly to be
commended for the pluck she had shown in calmly escaping from his
authority directly she got the chance.
"But who would have thought she had it in her to go in for a thing of
this sort?" said Noel. "The cool cheek of it beats anything I ever heard.
I say, I wonder what the other girl--the real Eleanor Carson--is like?
She looked frightfully subdued, didn't she? I expect she has been
catching it from him pretty well."
The plan that the little band of searchers had formed was to follow the
road taken by Geoffrey until they got to the top of the steep brow of the
hill, and then, leaving the road, to strike across the grass, for it was
probable that Margaret had essayed the short cut to Windy Gap, and that
she might be wandering about hopelessly lost not very far from the point
where she had left the road. In any case, they resolved not to stay out
for more than an hour or so, but to return home at the end of that time
and find out what news Geoffrey had of her.
But it was not until the town hall clock was solemnly striking midnight
that the four searchers, who had set out so gaily and valiantly at
half-past seven, turned wearily in at their own gate. The thing they
did not believe possible had happened, and long before the hour they had
planned to stay out was over, they were hopelessly lost themselves, and
must, as Maud said with a groan, have walked miles and miles before they
found themselves quite by chance not far from the point where they had
first left the road.
They were tired and hungry, damp, and very cold; and the last time Edward
had tripped and tumbled headlong into a furze bush--they had each had so
many stumbles and falls that they had lost count of the number they had
had--he dropped his new bicycle lamp, and had been unable to find it
again. Their expedition could not therefore be termed a success, and Maud
said that the last straw would be if they heard directly they got in that
Margaret had been found hours ago.
"As, of course, she has been," said Edward, when turning the corner of
the drive they saw Geoffrey's bicycle leaning against the porch. "I
expect she's in the drawing-room with her grandfather. There seem to be
lights everywhere. Well, I'm going to make a bee-line for the dining-room
for grub. We had a very sketchy lunch, no tea, and no dinner, so I think
we've earned something."
So as soon as they got into the house, the three boys went off in the
direction of the dining-room, but Maud, although she was hungry enough
too, felt that she must first hear if Miss Anstruther had been found.
Considering that lights were burning everywhere, the house seemed
strangely silent, and Maud was beginning to wonder if every one had gone
to bed, when the door leading from the pantry opened, and Martin, without
seeing her, followed the three boys into the dining-room, closing the
door after him. Yes, that must be it, Maud thought--every one must have
gone to bed, and he had shut the door lest their voices might disturb the
household. She was just about to go to the dining-room too, when the
sound of some one crying violently in the drawing-room came to her ears,
and rather hesitatingly she opened the door and went in.
Hilary and Eleanor Carson were alone there together. The latter, with
her elbows on her knees and her head buried in her hands, was sitting
motionless in a chair near the fire, and Hilary was crouched in a
huddled-up position on the ground by a sofa into the cushions of which
she was sobbing.
As Maud came in Eleanor lifted her head and stared at her for a moment.
Then she dropped her face again into her hands without a word. Brief as
was the glimpse that Maud had got of her face, she was startled beyond
measure at the expression it wore. It was as white as a sheet of paper,
and her eyes, though dry and tearless, were full of grief and misery.
"Hilary!" Maud said in an awed tone. She did not venture to address
Eleanor. "What is it? Where is Miss Anstruther?"
But she had to cross the room and repeat the question with her hand on
her sister's shoulder before the latter heard her.
Then Hilary lifted her face in turn and stared vacantly at her sister.
It was so blurred and swollen with incessant crying that if Maud had not
known it was her sister who lay crouched there before her, she could
scarcely have recognised her.
"Miss Anstruther is dead!" she wailed. "She fell over the cliffs and was
killed. And it is all my fault. If I hadn't----" But at that point her
tears, which never ceased for an instant, choked her further utterance,
and letting her head drop back on the cushions, she went on crying.
Seeing that it would be as useless as it was cruel to question Hilary
further, and still not daring to disturb the rigid, stony silence in
which Eleanor sat, Maud hurried, horror-struck at what she had heard,
from the room, and crossing the hall, went into the dining-room. The
three boys were seated at the table eagerly devouring some hot soup,
which Martin, whose face was very grave, had had in readiness for them.
Evidently he had not told them the dreadful news, and checking the
questions which had been on the point of rising to her lips, Maud
beckoned him from the room. He came out, carefully closing the door
behind him.
"It's no use upsetting the young gentlemen by letting them know about it
to-night," he said in a low tone. "They had better be got off to bed as
soon as possible."
"It is really true, then?" Maud said, feeling sick at heart.
"I am afraid there is no doubt about it, Miss. It was a coastguardsman
that told Master Geoffrey about it. He had been up to Windy Gap and heard
that Miss Anstruther had not been seen there. And then coming back, he
lost his way--went clean off the road in the dark, and then couldn't find
it again for ever so long. He might have gone over the cliffs himself,
Miss Maud. Then he met a coastguardsman and told him he was out looking
for a young lady and asked him if he had seen her, and then the man said
that about eight o'clock a young lady had fallen over the cliffs, just
beyond the lighthouse, and had been picked up in a dying condition on the
rocks below. They had taken her along the beach until they got to the end
of the sea-wall, and then they had telephoned for an ambulance, and she
was taken to the hospital, for, of course, they didn't know her name or
where she lived then."
At that moment the three boys stumbled wearily into the hall rubbing
their eyes. "I say, we're off to bed," said Noel. "Martin says that Miss
Anstruther hasn't come back yet, but we can't do anything more, he
thinks, so as we can scarcely keep our eyes open, we are going to turn
in. Go and have some grub, Maud, and do likewise." And yawning their
heads off as they went, the three boys trailed up to bed, far too
sleepy to notice Maud's silence and horror-struck face.
"And Mr. Geoffrey has gone down to the hospital with Mr. Anstruther,"
continued Martin, as soon as the boys were out of earshot. "They were
obliged to walk, for there wasn't a cab about when Mr. Geoffrey came
back, for it was then close on eleven, and they wouldn't wait until I
went to get one from the livery stables up the road. And now, Miss Maud,
you must come and have something to eat. You had no dinner."
But Maud turned away with a little shake of the head. The mere idea of
food was distasteful to her. She asked where her mother was. Martin was
about to answer that his mistress was upstairs with Miss Joan and Miss
Nancy, when the sound of footsteps coming at racing speed up the drive
was heard, and the next moment Geoffrey dashed breathless and hatless
into the house. "I say," he panted out as soon as he could speak, "it's
all right. It wasn't Miss Anstruther who fell over the cliffs. It was
somebody else altogether. A visitor at one of the hotels, they say. Poor
thing, she has been terribly injured, and won't live till the morning, I
believe. But the point is that it wasn't Miss Anstruther. Where are
Hilary and poor Miss Carson? I must tell them at once."
He broke away from Maud, who would have detained him with a dozen eager
questions, and burst into the drawing-room, shouting out his good news as
he went.
Hilary, who was still crying--she had cried steadily for over two
hours--received his news with a scream of joy, but though Eleanor heard
it much more quietly, no one looking at her could fail to see how deeply
she was moved to thankfulness.
The Danvers could only dimly realise how great her suffering had been
during the last two hours, ever since Geoffrey had returned from the
downs and in an awestruck tone, and with halting, stammering speech had
broken to them all the news of the catastrophe which had, so he then
thought, overtaken Margaret. Hilary had at once broken out into the noisy
grief and passionate self-reproaches which she had kept up without
intermission ever since, but Eleanor's agony of mind had lain too deep
for outward expression. She knew that if Margaret had really been killed,
she would never have been able to forgive herself. The awful thought that
it was she who was responsible for her death would never have left her,
and now that the strain of those terrible hours was over, Eleanor could
only look back upon the utter blackness of despair that had been hers
through every minute of them with a shudder.
Then Mrs. Danvers who had been upstairs with her two nieces, for Joan had
had an attack of crying only second in intensity to that to which Hilary
had given way, informed by Martin of the good news which Geoffrey had
brought, came down, followed by Nancy and Joan in their dressing-gowns,
to share in the general rejoicing, and presently Mr. Anstruther returned,
having been driven up in a motor by one of the doctors who had been at
the hospital.
And Mr. Anstruther's harshness and anger against his erring granddaughter
was now a thing of the past. Though he had given scarcely more outward
sign of his inward feelings than Eleanor, the tragic fate that he had
believed to have overtaken Margaret had so appalled and shaken him that
the escapade of which she had been guilty had sunk to but insignificant
proportions in his eyes, and had she only returned now he would have
uttered no word of blame to her.
But meanwhile she had not come back, and they were as far off as ever
from knowing what had become of her, although in the general relief and
gladness that for anything they knew to the contrary at least she was
still alive, they had temporarily lost sight of that fact.
It was Mr. Anstruther who reminded them of it by mentioning that the
doctor who had so kindly driven him up to The Cedars had taken him round
to the police station on the way, where he, Mr. Anstruther, had given the
sergeant on duty a brief description of his granddaughter. This was to be
immediately telephoned to all the policemen on their night beats. The
sergeant had also telephoned up to the coastguard station, telling them
that the poor girl at the hospital was not the missing young lady, and to
ask them to keep a sharp look-out for her on the cliffs all night, and to
ring up the police station at once if anything was seen or heard of her.
Though Geoffrey's first search had proved so barren of result, he
announced his intention of going up on to the downs again, this time on
foot, and Maud volunteered to go with him. Her mother would have
preferred her to go to bed, but she scouted that notion. Hilary, however,
and the two Green girls, were glad enough to go docilely off to bed, and
when Maud and Geoffrey, fortified with sandwiches and soup, had departed
with freshly filled lanterns on a second expedition, Eleanor and Mr.
Anstruther and Mrs. Danvers were left alone in the drawing-room together
to get through the intervening hours of waiting as best they could.
Mr. Anstruther had deprecated the idea of Mrs. Danvers sitting up, but
she had averred that she had no desire either to go to bed or to sleep.
The former statement might have been true, but the latter was soon
contradicted by the gentle snores which emanated from the direction of
her chair. Mr. Anstruther sat so still that he, too, might have been
asleep, but Eleanor, glancing at him once or twice, saw that his eyes
were wide open and gazing fixedly before him. After awhile, his utter
immobility no less than Mrs. Danvers' regular snoring, got on Eleanor's
nerves, and rising quietly she slipped from the room, closing the door
softly behind her.
The lights were burning in the hall, and there she kept her lonely vigil,
pacing up and down. The slow hours wore away, two o'clock, three o'clock
struck, and still Geoffrey and Maud did not return. The huge relief and
joy she had felt when Geoffrey had come back from the hospital with the
news that the girl who had fallen over the cliffs was not Margaret had
long since ebbed away, and the anxiety to know what had become of her was
almost torturing in its intensity. She wondered how any one in the house
could sleep, or how Mr. Anstruther could sit patiently hour after hour by
the fire waiting for news. Then she remembered that at least his
conscience was at ease, for it was through no fault of his that his
granddaughter was wandering about on the downs on such a dreadful night,
and she envied him, envied any one who was not, like herself, burdened
with remorse, and that awful sense that had grown up with her anxiety
that, for whatever might befall Margaret that night, she alone was
directly responsible.
Eleanor was seeing things very clearly that night, and quite
dispassionately she told herself that she hated her own character. It was
selfish through and through. The specious plea with which she had salved
her conscience heretofore, that Margaret had been far the more eager of
the two for the mutual exchange of their names, she brushed aside as
worthless. Though there was little difference in their ages, Margaret
was, as regarded experience of the world, a mere child compared to her,
and she felt that in acceding to the deception she had been like a
grown-up person cheating a child. Of course, Margaret had been old enough
to know the difference between right and wrong, but that was no excuse
for her; she ought not to have taken advantage of her.
The sting of shame she had felt before. Mrs. Murray's unvarying kindness
and the gratitude she showed for any little mark of attention or service
rendered to her while she had been ill, had made Eleanor both remorseful
and ashamed, but her repentance then had not led to amendment. Even while
she had been deeply ashamed of herself, she had known that, for the sake
of her voice, she would have done it all over again, deceived Mrs.
Murray, taken advantage of Margaret, held her, in spite of her tears, to
her word, sacrificed her own truth and honesty to her ambition.
And this was the pass to which her ambition had brought her. Even though
Margaret's death was not mercifully to be laid at her door, as for two
long, never-to-be-forgotten hours that night she had feared, who could
tell what the effects of a night of exposure and fright on the downs
might not have upon her constitution?
No wonder, then, that with those miserable thoughts for company, Eleanor
could not rest. But her repentance if tardy was at least sincere. Could
the clock of time have been put back seven weeks, and were she and
Margaret to be meeting now for the first time in the dingy little
waiting-room at Carden Station, ah, how differently would she act! Not
for the sake of being the greatest singer in the whole round world would
she have consented to the deception. Rather would she have drudged as a
poorly paid teacher in second-rate schools all the days of her life.
"Oh--if I could only have the time over again!" groaned Eleanor. It
seemed such a small thing to wish for she thought despairingly. Just
seven short weeks over again.
At five o'clock Mr. Anstruther opened the drawing-room door and came out
into the hall. He did not see Eleanor who, wearied out at length with her
ceaseless pacing to and fro, had flung herself down a few-minutes
previously on Nancy's favourite couch behind the screen, but the ever
watchful Martin came forward immediately, and though his offer of coffee
was declined, he was permitted to help Mr. Anstruther into his overcoat.
From the brief colloquy that ensued between them Eleanor gathered that he
was going down to the police station. As soon as he had left she sprang
up and went out into the garden. The long and seemingly endless night was
at least over, and surely with daylight they might hope for news of
Margaret. The morning had broken cold and chilly, but the mist was
sweeping away in great rolling clouds before a light easterly breeze that
had sprung up at dawn.
At six o'clock Geoffrey and Maud came home. Eleanor, who then was pacing
up and down the drive, was the first to greet them, and her heart sank
when, in answer to her eager look, they shook their heads. They had
neither seen nor heard anything of Margaret.
"But no news is at least good news," said Geoffrey, quickly seeing how
sick at heart she looked, and remembering the news with which he had
returned the time before, she could not but agree with him there. "We
have scoured the downs between here and Windy Gap thoroughly, and I am
beginning to believe that she never tried to get there at all. We have
just come straight back from there now. Mrs. Murray has been up all night
with a hot bed, and hot blankets, and a hot bath, and all sorts of other
hot things, waiting for Miss Anstruther directly she turns up. And her
coachman and a couple of men from the village have been beating about on
the downs most of the night. I really believe she has crept into a rabbit
hole and means to lie low until all this fuss has blown over."
Though this remark did not succeed in bringing a smile to Eleanor's pale
lips, his cheery manner insensibly comforted her, and she turned and
walked back to the house with him and Maud, feeling that the load of her
trouble was somewhat lightened by their society.
"Hot soup again, Martin!" Geoffrey exclaimed, as the servant made his
appearance with a tray bearing some steaming cups directly they entered
the house, "we really can't do it. What with you at this end of the
journey, and Mrs. Murray at the other, this night has been a perfect
picnic of hot soup."
"It's not soup, Master Geoffrey, it's coffee," said Martin imperturbably.
"Oh, if it's coffee I am on for some. You must have some, too, Miss
Carson. You look a perfect wreck. I expect you have had a harder time of
it than we have."
Eleanor shook her head. His sympathetic tone made her lower lip tremble.
"I have done nothing all night--" she said, "but wait," she added.
"And awfully hard work that must have been by the look of you," he said;
"and where is everybody, Martin?"
"The mistress is in the drawing-room, Mr. Anstruther has gone down to the
police station, and the rest of the young ladies and gentlemen are in
bed. And I think, Mr. Geoffrey, if you and Miss Maud went to bed now,
too, it would be a good thing."
"Go to bed at half-past six in the morning! What an idea! Do you want to
go to bed, Maud?"
"No," she answered promptly; "but what I do want is a stinging hot bath.
That would freshen me up wonderfully. Come and have one, too, Miss
Carson. It would do you a world of good."
Eleanor did not feel as if she particularly wanted a hot bath at that
moment, but both Maud and Geoffrey so strongly advocated her taking one
that out of gratitude to them for the sympathy they evidently desired to
show her, she followed them upstairs. After all, she might as well have a
bath as do anything else; it would at least help to pass the time. And
when she had had her bath and done her hair, and was dressed and
downstairs again, she certainly felt wonderfully better for it. The
horrid sort of up-all-night feeling that she had experienced had quite
left her.
Presently the whole household was astir. Mrs. Danvers, firmly convinced
that she had been awake all night, left the drawing-room when the
housemaid entered it and went upstairs, intending to have a bath and
dress, but she went to bed instead.
To escape the curious eyes of the servants, who now seemed to be in every
room and to be regarding her with not unnatural curiosity, Eleanor
wandered out into the hall again and resumed the restless pacing to and
fro which she had kept up the greater part of the night. By eight o'clock
she seemed to have the principal sitting-rooms to herself. Geoffrey and
Maud had not yet come downstairs, and the servants, having finished their
dusting and sweeping, had gone to their breakfast.
Consequently when the telephone bell in the morning-room rang sharply she
was the first person to hear it. Hurrying toward it with the wild hope
that at last she was to hear news of Margaret, she caught up the
receiver.
"Hullo!" she heard, "are you there? Is that The Cedars? Mrs. Danvers? Who
then? I can't hear--Carson?--Eleanor Carson, you say? What! the young
lady who has been impersonating my wife's niece? Yes, I know all about
it. Yes--yes, I am telling you. Margaret Anstruther is here. I found her
myself, not half an hour ago, in a wood shed in the wood at the back of
our house here. She lost her way on the downs last night trying to get to
Mrs. Murray's. Yes--yes, well and safe. My wife has sent her to bed. She
has a temperature and a bad cold in the head. We have sent for a doctor.
No--no not ill, but it is best to be on the safe side. And I sent a motor
off ten minutes ago to let Mrs. Danvers know she is safe----" But the
rest was a buzzing noise only. Either they had been cut off or Sir
Richard had abruptly stopped speaking.
But Eleanor had heard enough. Margaret was safe. In her intense relief
and joy at the news Eleanor let the receiver fall with a clang, and when
Geoffrey and Maud, having heard her voice at the telephone, came flying
downstairs, they found her shedding tears of joy.
"Margaret is found!" she said in glad accents. "Sir Richard Strangways
has just telephoned." And she repeated to them the substance of what she
had heard.
"I wonder why they did not send her back here," said Maud presently, when
their first excitement was over.
"Because Margaret has evidently told them everything," replied Eleanor.
"For Sir Richard spoke of her as Margaret, and, of course, they know now
that she, not I, is Lady Strangways' niece."
"Is she really Lady Strangways' niece?" said Maud, in the wildest
astonishment, "but they did not seem to know each other."
"They didn't," said Eleanor, "or, of course, our plot would have been
found out at once. It's rather a long story to tell you now, but the gist
of it is that as Lady Strangways has been out of England for years she
and Margaret had never met. And so when Mrs. Murray told her that she had
a niece of Mr. Anstruther's staying with her--meaning me then, of
course--I had to pretend to be her niece. But she didn't take to me,"
added Eleanor ruefully.