THE DOG IN THE MANGER.
Could Cylmer have seen her through that night of wan fear? In and out
of her bed, like a restless ghost, she who had always before slept like
a baby; crouching sullenly over her fire, hardening her heart to meet
what must come; till a sudden thought would strike with an unendurable
pang of terror, and make her start to her feet and walk round and
round her room, wild and terrible in her beauty, all her flaxen hair
streaming over the face that was more white than her nightgown.
“Murder will out, and by to-morrow night he may have brought it home to
her! What shall I do? Oh! What shall I do?”
She stopped in front of the roses her lover had given her, and with
sudden frantic hands tore them to shreds; crimson petals, green leaves,
fluttered over her muslin night-dress; the thorns of the stripped
stalks tore her hands, wounded her bare white feet. As if the pain
had brought back her senses, she gave a long sigh, and stood quite
motionless; presently, she sat down very wearily on her tossed bed.
“I’m behaving like a fool!” she thought. “He will be back and tell me
what was found before the police act on it, or can get very far if they
do. And, for all I know, it may be the greatest piece of luck we could
have, and draw suspicion off on a false scent, and save us. I will get
out of him all they are doing in time to run, if we must”--she winced
in spite of herself--“but we won’t run while there is one chance left.
I can’t, I won’t, lose him!”
Her lips curved in that hard smile that could make even Mrs. Trelane
shrink. She rose and put on a thick dressing-gown. As calmly as if
it were broad daylight, and the proper time for sewing, Miss Trelane
opened a locked drawer, and took out a roll of material she had been at
some pains to obtain. She got down on the floor and cut out and sewed
hard for the next two hours, not that there was any haste to complete
her task, but for the solace of the effort. The thick softness of the
white satin she was working with made her frown with some emotion that
she fought down, for she thought of the dress that she would never wear
standing at the altar with the man she loved.
“Well, I can bear it as other women have before!” she thought grimly,
sewing with firm, practical fingers. “Thank fortune, all this wants is
good, solid basting that can’t come out! I would find no joy in sewing
my fingers off, even to get a hold on Marcus Wray.”
She gave a little stretch of fatigue, and surveyed her work when the
last stitch was in. Then she let her dressing-gown slip off her lovely
shoulders, and put on the dress she had so hastily run together.
“Lucky I haven’t to powder my hair!” she thought, as she piled it high
on her head deftly, without going near the glass. “Powder dropped on
Miss Le Marchant’s red felt stair carpets would be too remarkable even
for Thomas!” She stooped as she spoke, took a filmy white scarf, yards
long, from the open dresser, and put it over her head and round her
slim body, leaving the long wide ends to float gauzily behind her as
she walked over to the long glass set in her wardrobe.
And even she was startled at what she saw in the light of the nearly
burned-out candles.
Tall and strangely slender in the short-waisted, tight-skirted gown,
that clung to her shape, her pale face ghostly under the filmy crape
that veiled it, only her eyes burning dark, fiery, and revengeful,
to give it any semblance of life, she stood the living image of the
pictured woman up-stairs. In her bare feet she moved to and fro in
front of the glass, till she learned a movement that made her look as
if she floated rather than walked.
“That is all right, I think!” she mused. “Thomas and Jessie are
the only people I should ever be in danger of meeting, and I think
I am quite enough to make them howl and run, without stopping to
investigate. But as things are now I don’t feel so much interest in
sneaking round at night, trying to catch Marcus out. My parent’s neck
and my own happiness seem a trifle more important.”
She pulled off the old-fashioned frock as carelessly as she dared,
considering its frail putting together, and stuffed it and the scarf
into the drawer, picked up every thread and scrap of satin that might
betray her occupation, and burned them. She was asleep almost before
she had extinguished the candles and got her head on her pillow, and
as she slept the night skies burst in rain, and at the roar of the
downpour on the windows, the girl’s quiet face twitched with pain.
In her dream it was the noise of the crowd waiting to see her mother
hanged!
In the morning it still rained heavily. For one moment she hoped the
weather would keep Cylmer at home, but then she remembered that rich
people with closed carriages cared very little for rain and wind. And
she wanted him to go, the sooner she knew what had been found, the
better.
“Ismay!” Cristiane said at breakfast, “what have you been doing to your
poor hands?”
“Briars,” concisely.
“You shouldn’t try to pick those thorny rose-berries without gloves,
town child!”
And at the laughing voice Ismay shuddered. Truly, such as she had no
right with roses at all.
“What are we going to do all day?” pursued the heiress discontentedly,
the riches and luxury of her house being too old a story to enjoy of a
wet day. “Just look at the rain! Let’s go out, and get dripping.”
“And have pneumonia when we come in,” with practical experience of
wettings in the days when she ran errands, half-clad. “Not I!”
“But I’m bored,” peevishly.
“Are you? Then thank Heaven! It’s a very healthy state of mind,” said
Ismay drolly. “I wish I were.”
“Aren’t you?” with her violet eyes wide.
Ismay shook her head.
“Too glad to be in out of that!” she observed coolly. “I used to be out
in it too often when we were poor.”
“I’d like to be poor, and work,” Cristiane said thoughtfully. “It must
be so amusing never to know where you’re going to get to-morrow’s
dinner! Something like gambling.”
“Very like it; when you lose, and have no dinner.”
“You’re so material!” Cristiane said reproachfully. “Now I want to be
amused. Even stupid old Miles would be better than nobody.”
Ismay was so startled that she had blushed crimson before she had time
to turn away her head. Utterly at loss she sat as guilty-looking as the
silliest schoolgirl who ever adored a music-master in secret!
“Stupid old Miles!” she could have boxed her hostess’ ears with rage.
And for once her hostess was clear-eyed.
A suspicion had sprung up full grown in her mind as she saw Ismay’s
confusion. Why should she get so red at the mere name of a man she
had only seen twice? Could those solitary walks of hers have covered
meetings with him? He was nearly always hanging about--or had been!
Cristiane had refused him, certainly, but she was none the less stung
at the mere thought that he was daring to console himself; she felt
exactly like the proverbial dog in the manger, even if she did not want
the oats no one else should have them. For the first time, Miles Cylmer
seemed a desirable possession to the spoiled child.
“What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Don’t look so cross.”
Ismay threw back her head, with a lovely laugh, that rang with
innocence.
“I’m not cross,” she cried, “it’s you that are a baby! I told you long
ago that you really liked him.” Her sweet voice gave no sign of the
fright in her mind lest this girl, who had everything, might try to get
back the one that was Ismay’s all, and so strike aside the arm that
stood between her and death.
“I didn’t like him, or I could have married him,” Cristiane retorted,
with intention; Ismay should see that Miles was hers, and not to be
interfered with.
“Why on earth didn’t you, then? He’s so good-looking,” said the other
imperturbably.
“I get too tired of him. He was a friend of father’s, and always
bothering over here.” As usual, her crimson lips quivered at her
father’s name.
“Oh, Cristiane--darling, forgive me!” Ismay kissed her, half with real
compunction, half to mislead her. “Don’t let’s talk of him any more.”
“I don’t want to; I hate him. He never came near me when I was in
trouble, just because I wouldn’t marry him. Did you ever hear of
anything so selfish?” smarting tears in her eyes.
Ismay reflected swiftly that she must burn that penciled card.
“I suppose,” Cristiane was going on, “he will be back again
soon--saying he loves me, and all that, but he can die of love, for all
me.”
In spite of her anxious heart it was all Ismay could do to restrain the
cold, clear laugh that was in her throat.
“I wish that nice Mr. Wray was coming back sooner,” Cristiane observed,
when her equanimity was further restored. “A fortnight is a very long
time when you’re dull. I like him far better than Miles Cylmer. He’s so
much cleverer--and kinder,” dropping her voice.
“Kinder? Look here, Cristiane, listen to me,” said Ismay, very
earnestly. “He isn’t kind at all, and I wouldn’t trust him, if I were
you, with my little finger.”
“Why? I believe you’re cross, Ismay, because Mr. Wray talks more to
your mother and me than to you.”
“I wish he were struck dumb, and would never speak again,” replied
Ismay viciously. “I don’t like him because I think he’s a bad man, that
is why.”
“Then I shall like him,” with defiance. “Bad men in books are always
much the nicest; I have often longed to know one.”
“Well, you have your wish!” returned Ismay calmly.
“Listen, I hear wheels!” cried Cristiane suddenly. “There’s some one
coming. Even if it’s only Miles, he shall stay to lunch.”
Indifferently, since Miles was in London, Ismay followed her, to look
out on the rain-beaten sweep of gravel. Yet could it be Miles? For a
closed fly from the station was in front of the hall door.
Cristiane gave a little shriek.
“It’s--why, Ismay, it’s your mother! And Mr. Wray,” as a man followed
Mrs. Trelane leisurely onto the streaming terrace.
She rushed to the door to greet the arrivals.
Ismay Trelane, white as ashes, was left alone to meet a terror that
made her arms fall inert to her sides.
What had brought her mother back? And what was hurrying Marcus Wray,
that his fortnight of grace had been turned to two days?