have been for a ride--if you don't want to say where you have really
been."
"And if you don't want to mention that you were driving with Ned
Cromarty," he retorted.
"He only very kindly offered me a lift!"
She looked quickly at him as she spoke and as quickly away again. The
glint in her eye seemed to displease him.
"You needn't always be so sharp with me, Cicely," he complained.
"You shouldn't say stupid things."
Both were silent for a space and then in a low mournful voice he said:
"I wish I knew how to win your sympathy, Cicely. You don't absolutely
hate me, do you?"
"Of course I don't hate you. But the way to get a girl's sympathy is not
always to keep asking for it."
He looked displeased again.
"I don't believe you know what I mean!"
"I don't believe you do either."
He grew tender.
"_Your_ sympathy, Cicely, would make all the difference to my life!"
"Now, Malcolm----" she began in a warning voice.
"Oh, I am not asking you to love me again," he assured her quickly. "It
is only sympathy I demand!"
"But you mix them up so easily. It isn't safe to give you anything."
"I won't again!" he assured her.
"Well," she said, though not very sympathetically, "what do you want to
be sympathised with about now?"
"When you offer me sympathy in that tone, I can't give you my
confidence!" he said unhappily.
"Really, Malcolm, how can I possibly tell what your confidence is going
to be beforehand? Perhaps it won't deserve sympathy."
"If you knew the state of my affairs!" he said darkly.
"A few days ago you told me they were very promising," she said with a
little smile.
"So they would be--so they are--if--if only you would care for me,
Cicely!"
"You tell me they are promising when you want me to marry you, and
desperate when you want me to sympathise with you," she said a little
cruelly. "Which am I to believe?"
"Hush! Here's Sir Reginald," he said.
The gentleman who came through a door in the walled garden beside the
house was a fresh-coloured, white-haired man of sixty; slender and not
above middle height, but very erect, and with the carriage of a person a
little conscious of being of some importance. Sir Reginald Cromarty was,
in fact, extremely conscious of his position in life, and the rather
superior and condescending air he was wont to assume in general society
made it a little difficult for a stranger to believe that he could
actually be the most popular person in the county; especially as it was
not hard to discover that his temper could easily become peppery upon
provocation. If, however, the stranger chanced to provide the worthy
baronet with even the smallest opening of exhibiting his extraordinary
kindness of heart--were it only by getting wet in a shower or mislaying
a walking stick, he would quickly comprehend. And the baronet's sympathy
never waited to be summoned; it seemed to hover constantly over all men
and women he met, spying for its chance.
He himself was totally unconscious of this attribute and imagined the
respect in which he was held to be due to his lineage, rank, and
superior breeding and understanding. Indeed, few people in this world
can have cut a more dissimilar figure as seen from his own and from
other men's eyes; though as both parties were equally pleased with Sir
Reginald Cromarty, it mattered little.
At the sight of Cicely his smile revealed the warmth of his feelings in
that direction.
"Ah, my dear girl," said he, "we've been looking for you. Where have you
been?"
"I've been having a walk."
She smiled at him as she answered, and on his side it was easy to see
that the good gentleman was enraptured, and that Miss Farmond was not
likely to be severely cross-examined as to her movements. Towards
Malcolm, on the other hand, though his greeting was kindly enough, his
eye was critical. The young author's tie seemed to be regarded with
particular displeasure.
"My God, Margaret, imagine being found dead in such a thing!" he had
exclaimed to his wife, after his first sight of it; and time had done
nothing to diminish his distaste for this indication of a foreign way of
life.
Lady Cromarty came out of the garden a moment later; a dark thin-faced
lady with a gracious manner when she spoke, but with lips that were
usually kept very tight shut and an eye that could easily be hard.
"Nearly time for lunch," she said. "You two had better hurry up!"
The young people hurried on to the house and the baronet and his lady
walked slowly behind.
"So they have been away all morning together, Reginald," she remarked.
"Oh, I don't think so," said he. "He had his bicycle and she has been
walking."
"You are really too unsuspicious, Reggie!"
"A woman, my dear, is perhaps a little too much the reverse where a
young couple is concerned. I have told you before, and I repeat it now
emphatically, that neither Cicely nor Malcolm is in a position to
contemplate matrimony for an instant."
"He is your heir--and Cicely is quite aware of it."
"I assure you, Margaret," he said with great conviction, "that Cicely is
not a girl with mercenary motives. She is quite charming----"
"Oh, I know your opinion of her, Reggie," Lady Cromarty broke in a
trifle impatiently, "and I am fond of her too, as you know. Still, I
don't believe a girl who can use her eyes so effectively is quite as
simple as you think."
Sir Reginald laughed indulgently.
"Really, my love, even the best of women are sometimes a trifle
uncharitable! But in any case Malcolm has quite enough sense of his
future position to realise that his wife must be somebody without the
blemish on her birth, which is no fault of dear Cicely's, but--er--makes
her ineligible for this particular position."
"I wish I could think that Malcolm is the kind of young man who would
consult anything but his own wishes. I have told you often enough,
Reggie, that I don't think it is wise to keep these two young people
living here in the same house for months on end."
"But what can one do?" asked the benevolent baronet. "Neither of them
has any home of their own. Hang it, I'm the head of their family and I'm
bound to show them a little hospitality."
"But Malcolm has rooms in town. He needn't spend months on end at
Keldale."
The baronet was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"To tell the truth, my dear, I'm afraid Malcolm is not turning out quite
so well as I had hoped. He certainly ought to be away doing something.
At the same time, hang it, you wouldn't have me turn my own kinsman and
heir out of my house, Margaret; would you?"
Lady Cromarty sighed, and then her thin lips tightened.
"You are hopeless, Reggie. I sometimes feel as though I were here merely
as matron of a home for lost Cromartys! Well, I hope your confidence
won't be abused. I confess I don't feel very comfortable about it
myself."
"Well, well," said Sir Reginald. "My own eyes are open too, I assure
you. I shall watch them very carefully at lunch, in the light of what
you have been saying."
The baronet was an old Etonian, and as his life had been somewhat
uneventful since, he was in the habit of drawing very largely on his
recollections of that nursery of learning. Lunch had hardly begun before
a question from Cicely set him going, and for the rest of the meal he
regaled her with these reminiscences.
After luncheon he said to his wife:
"Upon my word, I noticed nothing whatever amiss. Cicely is a very
sensible as well as a deuced pretty girl."
"I happened to look at Malcolm occasionally," said she.
Sir Reginald thought that she seemed to imply more than she said, but
then women were like that, he had noticed, and if one took all their
implications into account, life would be a troublesome affair.
IX
A PHILOSOPHER
During luncheon an exceedingly efficient person had been moving briskly
behind the chairs. His face was so expressionless, his mouth so tightly
closed, and his air of concentration on the business in hand so intense,
that he seemed the perfect type of the silent butler. But as soon as
lunch was over, and while Cicely still stood in the hall listening with
a dubious eye to Malcolm's suggestion of a game of billiards, Mr. James
Bisset revealed the other side of his personality. He came up to the
young couple with just sufficient deference, but no more, and in an
accent which experts would have recognised as the hall mark of the
western part of North Britain, said:
"Excuse me, miss, but I've mended your bicycle and I'll show it you if
ye like, and just explain the principle of the thing."
There was at least as much command as invitation in his tones. The
billiard invitation was refused, and with a hidden smile Cicely followed
him to the bicycle house.
Expert knowledge was James Bisset's foible. Of some subjects, such as
buttling, carpentry, and mending bicycles, it was practical; of others,
such as shooting, gardening, and motoring, it was more theoretical. To
Sir Reginald and my lady he was quite indispensable, for he could repair
almost anything, knew his own more particular business from A to Z, and
was ready at any moment to shoulder any responsibility. Sir Reginald's
keeper, gardener, and chauffeur were apt however to be a trifle less
enthusiastic, Mr. Bisset's passion for expounding the principles of
their professions sometimes exceeding his tact.
In person, he was an active, stoutly built man (though far too energetic
to be fat), with blunt rounded features, eyes a little protruding, and
sandy hair and a reddish complexion which made his age an unguessable
secret. He might have been in the thirties or he might have been in the
fifties.
"With regard to these ladies' bicycles, miss--" he began with a
lecturer's air.
But by this time Cicely was also an expert in side-tracking her friend's
theoretical essays.
"Oh, how clever of you!" she exclaimed rapturously. "It looks as good as
ever!"
The interruption was too gratifying to offend.
"Better in some ways," he said complacently. "The principle of these
things is----"
"I did miss it this morning," she hurried on. "In fact I had to have
quite a long walk. Luckily Mr. Cromarty of Stanesland gave me a lift
coming home."
"Oh, indeed, miss? Stanesland gave ye a lift, did he? An interesting
gentleman yon."
This time she made no effort to divert Mr. Bisset's train of thought.
"You think Mr. Cromarty interesting, then?" said she.
"They say he's hanged a man with his ain hands," said Bisset
impressively.
"What!" she cried.
"For good and sufficient reason, we'll hope, miss. But whatever the way
of it, it makes a gentleman more interesting in a kin' of way than the
usual run. And then looking at the thing on general principles, the
theory of hanging is----"
"Oh, but surely," she interrupted, "that isn't the only reason why Mr.
Cromarty--I mean why you think he is interesting?"
"There's that glass eye, too. That's very interesting, miss."
She still seemed unsatisfied.
"His glass eye! Oh--you mean it has a story?"
"Vera possibly. He says himself it was done wi' a whisky bottle, but
possibly that's making the best of it. But what interests me, miss,
about yon eye is this----"
He paused dramatically and she enquired in an encouraging voice:
"Yes, Bisset?"
"It's the principle of introducing a foreign substance so near the man's
brain. What's glass? What's it consist of?"
"I--I don't know," confessed Cicely weakly.
"Silica! And what's silica? Practically the same as sand! Well now if ye
put a handful of sand into a man's brain--or anyhow next door to it,
it's bound to have some effect, bound to have some effect!"
Bisset's voice fell to a very serious note, and as he was famous for the
range of his reading and was generally said to know practically by heart
"The People's Self-Educator in Science and Art," Cicely asked a little
apprehensively:
"But what effect can it possibly have?"
"It might take him different ways," said the philosopher cautiously
though sombrely. "But it's a good thing, anyway, Miss Farmond, that the
laird of Stanesland is no likely to get married."
"Isn't he?" she asked, again with that encouraging note.
Bisset replied with another question, asked in an ominous voice:
"Have ye seen yon castle o' his, miss?"
Cicely nodded.
"I called there once with Lady Cromarty."
"A most interesting place, miss, illustrating the principle of thae
castles very instructively."
Mr. Bisset had evidently been studying architecture as well as science,
and no doubt would have given Miss Farmond some valuable information on
the subject. But she seemed to lack enthusiasm for it to-day.
"But will the castle prevent him marrying?" she enquired with a smile.
"The lady in it will," said the philosopher with a sudden descent into
worldly shrewdness.
"Miss Cromarty! Why?"
"She's mair comfortable there than setting off on her travels again.
That's a fac', miss."
"But--but supposing he----" Cicely began and then paused.
"Oh, the laird's no the marrying sort anyhow. He says to me himself one
day when I'd taken the liberty of suggesting that a lady would suit the
castle fine--we was shooting and I was carrying his cartridges, which I
do for amusement, miss, whiles--'Bisset,' says he, 'the lady will have
to be a damned keen shot to think me worth a cartridge. I'm too tough
for the table,' says he, 'and not ornamental enough to stuff. They've
let me off so far, and why the he--' begging your pardon, miss, but
Stanesland uses strong expressions sometimes. 'Why the something,' says
he, 'should they want to put me in the bag now? I'm happier free--and
so's the lady.' But he's a grand shot and a vera friendly gentleman,
vera friendly indeed. It's a pity, though, he's that ugly."
"Ugly!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I don't think him ugly at all. He's very
striking looking. I think he is rather handsome."
Bisset looked at her with a benevolently reproving eye.
"Weel, miss, it's all a matter of taste, but to my mind Stanesland is a
fine gentleman, but the vera opposite extreme from a Venus." He broke
off and glanced towards the house. "Oh, help us! There's one of thae
helpless women crying on me. How this house would get on wanting
me----!"
He left Miss Farmond to paint the gloomy picture for herself.
X
THE LETTER
It was a few days later that Cicely looked up from the local paper she
was reading and asked:
"Who was George Rattar?"
Sir Reginald laid down his book and looked at her in some surprise.
"George Rattar? What do you know about him?"
"I see the announcement of his death. 'Son of the late John Simon
Rattar' he's called."
"That's Silent Simon's brother!" exclaimed Sir Reginald. "Where did he
die?"
"In New York, it says."
Sir Reginald turned to his wife.
"We can hardly send our sympathies to Simon on this bereavement!"
"No," she said significantly. "I suppose congratulations would be more
appropriate."
The baronet took the paper from Cicely and studied it himself.
"Died about a fortnight ago, I see," he observed. "I wonder whether
Simon put this announcement in himself, or whether brother George
arranged it in his will? It would be quite like the fellow to have this
posthumous wipe at Simon. George had a certain sense of humour--which
Simon lacks. And there was certainly no love lost between them!"
"Why should it annoy Mr. Rattar?" asked Cicely.
"Because brother George was not a member of his family he would care to
be reminded of. Though on the other hand, Simon is as hard as whinstone
and has as much sentiment as this teapot, and he may have put the notice
in himself simply to show the world he was rid of the fellow."
"What was George Rattar then?" enquired Cicely.
"He was once Simon Rattar's partner, wasn't he, Reginald?" said Lady
Cromarty. "And then he swindled him, didn't he?"
"Swindled several other people as well," said Sir Reginald, "myself
included. However, the thing was hushed up, and brother George
disappeared. Then he took to forgery on his own account and among other
people's signatures he imitated with remarkable success was Simon's.
This let old Simon in for it again and there was no hushing it up a
second time. Simon gave evidence against him without mercy, and since
then George has been his Majesty's guest for a number of years. So if
you meet Mr. Simon Rattar, Cicely, you'd better not tell him how sorry
you are to hear of poor George's decease!"
"I wish I could remember him more distinctly," said Lady Cromarty. "I'm
afraid I always mix him up with our friend Mr. Simon."
"It's little wonder," her husband replied. "They were twins. George was
the one with a moustache; one knew them apart by that. Extraordinary
thing, it has always seemed to me, that their natures should have been
so different."
"Perhaps," suggested Cicely compassionately, with her serious air, "it
was only that George was tempted."
Sir Reginald laughed heartily.
"You little cynic!" he cried. "You mean to insinuate that if you tempted
Simon, he'd be as bad a hat as his brother?"
"Oh, no!" cried Cicely. "I meant----"
"Tempt him and see!" chuckled the baronet. "And we'll have a little bet
on the result!" He was glancing at the paper as he laughed, and now he
suddenly stopped laughing and exclaimed, "Hullo! Here's a much more
serious loss for our friend. Would you like to earn L1, Cicely?"
"Very much," said she.
"Well then if you search the road very carefully between Mr. Simon
Rattar's residence and his office you may find his signet ring and
obtain the advertised, and I may say princely, reward of one pound."
"Only a pound!" exclaimed Lady Cromarty, "for that handsome old ring of
his?"
"If he had offered a penny more, I should have taken my business out of
his hands!" laughed Sir Reginald. "It would have meant that Silent Simon
wasn't himself any longer. A pound is exactly his figure; a respectable
sum, but not extravagant."
"What day did he lose it?" asked Cicely.
"The advertisement doesn't say."
"He wasn't wearing it----" Cicely pulled herself up sharply.
"When?" asked Lady Cromarty.
"Where can I have seen him last?" wondered Cicely with an innocent air.
"Not for two or three weeks certainly," said Lady Cromarty decisively.
"And he can't have lost it then if this advertisement is only just put
in."
"No, of course not," Cicely agreed.
"Well," said Sir Reginald, "he'll miss his ring more than his brother!
And remember, Cicely, you get a pound for finding the ring, and you win
a pair of gloves if you can tempt Simon to stray from the paths of
honesty and virtue! By Jingo, I'll give you the gloves if you can even
make him tell a good sporting lie!"
When the good baronet was in this humour no man could excel him in
geniality, and, to do him justice, a kindly temper and hearty spirits
were the rule with him six days out of seven. On the other hand, he was
easily ruffled and his tempers were hot while they lasted. Upon the very
next morning there arose on the horizon a little cloud, a cloud that
seemed at the moment the merest fleck of vapour, which upset him, his
family thought, quite unduly.
It took the form of a business letter from Mr. Simon Rattar, a letter
on the surface perfectly innocuous and formally polite. Yet Sir Reginald
seemed considerably disturbed.
"Damn the man!" he exclaimed as he cast it on the breakfast table.
"Reggie!" expostulated his wife gently. "What's the matter?"
"Matter?" snapped her husband. "Simon Rattar has the impudence to tell
me he is letting the farm of Castleknowe to that fellow Shearer after
all!"
"But why not? You meant to some time ago, I know."
"Some time ago, certainly. But I had a long talk with Simon ten days ago
and told him what I'd heard about Shearer and said I wouldn't have the
fellow on my property at any price. I don't believe the man is solvent,
in the first place; and in the second place he's a socialistic,
quarrelsome, mischievous fellow!"
"And what did Mr. Rattar think?"
"He tried to make some allowances for the man, but in the end when he
saw I had made up my mind, he professed to agree with me and said he
would look out for another tenant. Now he tells me that the matter is
settled as per my instructions of the 8th. That's weeks ago, and not a
word does he say about our conversation cancelling the whole
instructions!"
"Then Shearer gets the farm?"
"No, he doesn't! I'm dashed if he does! I shall send Mr. Simon a letter
that will make him sit up! He's got to alter the arrangement somehow."
He turned to Malcolm and added:
"When your time comes, Malcolm, beware of having a factor who has run
the place so long that he thinks it's his own property! By Gad, I'm
going to tell him a bit of my mind!"
During the rest of breakfast he glanced at the letter once or twice, and
each time his brows contracted, but he said nothing more in presence of
Cicely and Malcolm. After he had left the dining room, however, Lady
Cromarty followed him and said:
"Don't be too hasty with Mr. Rattar, Reggie! After all, the talk may
have slipped his memory."
"Slipped his memory? If you had heard it, Margaret, you'd know better. I
was a bit cross with him for a minute or two then, which I hardly ever
am, and that alone would make him remember it, one would think. We
talked for over an hour on the business and the upshot was clear and
final. No, no, he has got a bit above himself and wants a touch of the
curb."
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to send in a note by car and tell him to come out and see me
about the business at once."
"Let me see the letter before you send it, Reggie."
He seemed to growl assent, but when she next saw him the letter had
gone; and from the baronet's somewhat crusty explanation, she suspected
that it was a little sharper than he knew she would have approved.
When the car returned his annoyance was increased again for a space. Mr.
Rattar had sent a brief reply that he was too busy to come out that
afternoon, but he would call on Sir Reginald in the morning. For a time
this answer kept Sir Reginald in a state of renewed irritation, and then
his natural good humour began to prevail, till by dinner time he was
quite calm again, and after dinner in as genial humour as he had been in
the day before.
He played a game of pyramids with Cicely and Malcolm in the billiard
room, and then he and Cicely joined Lady Cromarty in the drawing room
while the young author went up to his room to work, he declared. He had
a large bedroom furnished half as a sitting room where he retired each
night to compose his masterpieces as soon as it became impossible to
enjoy Miss Farmond's company without having to share it in the drawing
room with his host and hostess. At least, that was the explanation of
his procedure given by Lady Cromarty, whose eye was never more critical
than when it studied her husband's kinsman and heir.
Lady Cromarty's eye was not uncritical also of Cicely at times, but
to-night she was so relieved to see how Sir Reginald's temper improved
under her smiles and half shy glances, that she let her stay up later
than usual. Then when she and the girl went up to bed, she asked her
husband if he would be late.
"The magazines came this morning," said he. "I'd better sleep in my
dressing room."
The baronet was apt to sit up late when he had anything to read that
held his fancy, and the procedure of sleeping in his dressing room was
commonly followed then.
He bade them good-night and went off towards the library, and a few
minutes later, as they were going upstairs, they heard the library door
shut.
When they came to Lady Cromarty's room, Cicely said good-night to her
hostess and turned down the passage that led to her own bedroom. A door
opened quietly as she passed and a voice whispered:
"Cicely!"
She stopped and regarded the young author with a reproving eye.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
"I just wanted to speak to you!" he pleaded.
"Now, Malcolm," she said severely, "you know quite well that Lady
Cromarty trusts us _not_ to do this sort of thing!"
"She's in her room, isn't she?"
"What does that matter?"
"And where's Sir Reginald?"
"Still in the library."
"Sitting up late?"
"Yes, but that doesn't matter either. Good night!"
"Wait just one minute, Cicely! Come into my room--I won't shut the
door!"
"Certainly not!" she said emphatically.
"Well then, don't speak so loudly! I must confide in you, Cicely; I'm
getting desperate. My position is really serious. Something's got to
happen! If you would only give me your sympathy----"
"I thought you were writing," she interrupted.
"I've been trying to, but----"
"Well, write all this down and read it to me to-morrow," she smiled.
"Good night!"