It may have been an hour later when suddenly Lily Fairfield sat up in
bed. In a moment she knew where she was, and yet she did not really feel
awake. She told herself with a feeling of fear that she was
asleep—asleep, as she had been asleep that night ten days ago, when she
had started walking in her sleep, so frightening greatly Uncle Tom.
Something now seemed to be impelling her, almost ordering her, to get up
and to begin walking through the silent, sleeping house. She fought
against the impulse, the almost command; but it was as if a stronger
will than her own was forcing her to get out of the low, old-fashioned
Empire bed.
She did so, slowly, reluctantly, and then she walked automatically
across to the door of the room and opened it.
Surely she was asleep? Had she been awake she would have put on a
wrapper before going into the passage. As it was, she felt impelled to
open also the door opposite to that of her own room—the door which she
had been told led into the room in which old Cristina, the
friend-servant of the host and hostess, slept.
Lily walked blindly on, to the dim patch of light which was evidently
the window of Cristina’s room. The blind was up, but the window was
closed. She stared out, but she could see nothing, for it was a very
dark, moonless night, and the great arch of sky above the sea was only
faintly perceptible. And then, suddenly, Lily knew that she was awake,
not asleep, for there fell on her ear the sound of deadened footsteps
floating up from below—that is, from the terrace. A moment later she
heard the long French window of what the Countess called the _grand
salon_ open quietly.
And then it was that all at once, standing there behind the still closed
window, Lily remembered her fifty pounds—the fifty pounds she had asked
Aunt Cosy to keep for her, and which she had seen Uncle Angelo put in
the ebony and ivory cabinet!
What should she do? Should she fling open the window and call out? No,
for that would scare the burglars away, if burglars they were.
Lily listened again, intently, and after what seemed to her a long, long
time, she heard the window below closing to, very quietly. Then came the
sound of footsteps—it seemed to her more than one pair of
footsteps—padding softly away across the lawn into the wood. Then
followed a curious, long-drawn-out sound—so faint that she had to strain
her ears to hear it at all.
She gave a stifled cry—something had suddenly loomed up on the broad
ledge the other side of the closed window. It was the big cat Mimi—Mimi
dragging herself along by the window-pane and purring, her green eyes
gleaming coldly, wickedly, in the night air.
Frightened and unnerved, Lily turned and felt her way through the dark
room to the bed. She might at least wake Cristina, and tell her what she
had heard. She put out her hand, and felt the smooth, low pillow—then
slowly her fingers travelled down, and to her intense surprise she
realised that the bed was empty, and that it had not been slept in that
night.
Then she had made a mistake in thinking this room was Cristina’s room?
She stood and listened—there was not a sound to be heard now, an eerie
silence filled the house.
She suddenly made up her mind she would do nothing till the morning. It
would annoy the Countess were she to make a fuss now. Already Lily was a
little afraid of Aunt Cosy. If her money was indeed gone, then it was
gone! Nothing they could do at this time of night would be of any use.
She walked gropingly across to the door, her eyes by now accustomed to
the darkness, and so into the passage. Pushing open her own door, she
quietly shut it. Then she went over to her window and, parting the
curtains, took a deep draught of the delicious southern night air. It
was extraordinarily and uncannily still and dark on that side of La
Solitude.
She lay down and was soon in a deep, if troubled sleep.
When Lily Fairfield awoke the next morning she experienced the curious
sensation of not knowing in the least where she was. What strange, bare,
gloomy room was this? The very little she could see of it was
illuminated by a shaft of dull morning light filtering through the top
of the heavy velvet and silk curtains drawn across the window. To the
left of the door was a long, low walnut-wood chest. With an inward
tremor she told herself that it was like a coffin.
And then, all at once, she remembered everything! This was her bedroom
at La Solitude—and yesterday had been the beginning of what ought to be
quite an exciting and interesting experience.
All that had happened last evening came back to her with a rush. Her
introduction to that rather rough Mr. George Ponting, who had yet been
so kindly, so respectful, in his manner to her. She smiled and sighed a
little as she thought of how hurt he had been at her refusing the
beautiful little gold box. What sort of girl would get that box? she
wondered.
Then she went over her queer experience of last night, or was it early
this morning? It did not seem quite so real now as it had been then.
Perhaps she had only fancied that one of the long drawing-room windows
had been opened in the night?
She began to wonder at what time M. Popeau and Captain Stuart would come
to-day. She did hope Countess Polda and her new friends would get on
together. Somehow she doubted it—they were so very different!
She jumped up and pulled open the curtains. What a pity this room had
only a view of the small courtyard below and of the bare hillside above!
But she was not likely to spend much time in her bedroom.
During the last two years Lily had always got up extremely early because
of her war work. She turned towards the travelling clock which she had
put on the mantelpiece. Ten o’clock? Impossible! It must have stopped
last night—but no, it was ticking away as usual. How dreadful that she
should have so overslept herself! Dreadful, and yet, after all, natural,
after all those days of travel.
And then she looked at the glass, the contents of which she had not
drunk the night before. There was a white sediment at the bottom of the
water. She told herself that perhaps the one thing in common between The
Nest and La Solitude was that they were both built on chalk.
She wondered where the bathroom could be. Putting on her dressing-gown,
she opened her bedroom door. The passage was full of sunlight—a curious
contrast to her room.
The only open door besides her own was that just opposite. She peeped
into it. It was a little empty slip of a room. It had seemed so big last
night in the darkness.
She ran down to the kitchen. Cristina was sitting at a little table,
drinking a cup of coffee.
As the door opened, the old woman jumped up with a curious look of
apprehension and unease on her face. Then she smiled a rather wan smile.
“Ah, Mademoiselle!” she exclaimed. “You startled me. Would you like a
cup of coffee? If so, I will bring it up to you in a few minutes.”
“I only want to know where the bathroom is,” said Lily.
Cristina looked at her uncomfortably. “Does Mademoiselle really want a
bath?” she asked. “Mademoiselle looks so clean!”
And then, for the first time since she had been at La Solitude, Lily
laughed a hearty, ringing, girlish laugh, and Cristina put her fingers
to her lips. “Take care,” she murmured, “or you will wake _them_.”
She opened the door of what Lily had supposed the day before to be that
of the scullery. It led straight out on to the small walled courtyard
into which the window of her bedroom looked down. She followed Cristina
across the courtyard to what looked like a sort of outhouse. The old
woman took up her bunch of keys and unlocked the large double door. Then
she motioned the girl to go in.
Lily looked about her with considerable curiosity. Surely Cristina could
not expect her to have her bath _here_? And yet—yet there _was_ a long,
narrow zinc bath in a corner of the whitewashed building.
Close to where they were now standing—not far, that is, from the
door—was a peculiar-looking trolley, of which the four tyred bicycle
wheels were so large that they came above the top of the quaint-looking
vehicle.
Cristina gave a slight push to this odd-looking object, and it rolled
back noiselessly.
“What a very droll-looking thing!” exclaimed Lily.
“It is droll but useful,” said Cristina slowly. “It can be used for
transporting anything. The Count uses it in the garden sometimes—it is
very easy to move about.”
The old woman walked across to the corner of the room where stood the
narrow zinc bath, and then Lily saw that above one end of it was a
cold-water tap.
“This is the only fixed bath in the villa,” said Cristina
apologetically. “It was installed on the occasion of Count Beppo’s stay
here two years ago. He was very angry that there was no bathroom on the
English system. So the Countess had this put in to pacify him! But he
never used it. He moved instead to an hotel.”
Seeing Lily’s look of surprise and dismay, she added quietly, “Perhaps
Mademoiselle will not take a bath this morning?”
“Oh, yes, I must have a bath!” exclaimed Lily. “But to-morrow I’ll ask
you to let me make a good lot of boiling water in the kitchen.”
“It would be possible to make water hot here,” said Cristina
hesitatingly.
And Lily saw that there was a little stove not far from the bath. She
went up to the stove to look at it more closely, and then she put out
her hand and touched it. “Why, it’s hot!” she said in a startled voice.
“There must have been a fire here this morning!”
Cristina grew faintly red. “No,” she said, “not this morning—last night.
But please do not mention it to Madame la Comtesse, Mademoiselle. I had
a good deal of rubbish, and it is impossible to burn much in that tiny
kitchen——” she was now speaking in a quick, agitated voice.
“Yes, I can well believe that,” said Lily. The stove, unluckily for her,
was only warm, the fire had gone quite out. “I will make a fire now,”
said Cristina, “and bring out a pot of water.”
“No, don’t trouble to do that. I’ll manage all right this morning.”
“Then I will bring Mademoiselle a towel.” And bring one she did, but it
had a big hole in it.
And then, after she had performed her toilet under somewhat difficult
circumstances, Lily went into the kitchen and enjoyed a big bowl of
_café-au-lait_.
“I suppose there is an English church in Monte Carlo?” she asked
hesitatingly.
And Cristina said: “I hope Mademoiselle will not go out alone this
morning—it would make Madame la Comtesse angry if she did so.”
“Very well. I’ll sit on the terrace in the sun and be lazy,” said Lily.
Cristina came and unlocked the front door, and Lily walked round on to
the terrace. The drawing-room doors were closely shut and the blinds
were down. Surely she must have _dreamt_ what had seemed to happen last
night? But, alas! she had only been out there a very few moments when
she heard loud exclamations of concern and surprise. It was the Countess
talking rapidly and excitedly, by turns in French, English, and Italian.
Mingling with her agitated accents were the more gutteral tones of Uncle
Angelo.
Lily sprang up from the basket chair on which she had been sitting and,
turning round, through the now open long French window she saw the
Count, the Countess, and Cristina all standing together in the
drawing-room round the ebony and ivory cabinet.
As soon as she saw Lily the Countess called out: “A terrible thing has
happened, my poor child! This room was entered in the night—the lock of
the cabinet was forced—everything in it taken! Oh, why did Angelo put
your fifty pounds there, instead of taking it up to his room, where it
would have been so safe?”
The Countess was actually wringing her hands. She seemed almost beside
herself with distress. As for Cristina, the tears were rolling down her
cheeks; she looked the picture of utter woe. The Count appeared the
least disturbed of the three—but he was rubbing his hands nervously, and
muttering to himself.
Yes, it was only too true! One of the doors of the beautiful inlaid
cabinet had been wrenched off its hinges; it lay on the floor. As for
the drawer into which she had seen Uncle Angelo place her little bundle
of five-pound notes, the thief, in his haste, had stuck it in again
anyhow, wrong side up. Yes, another drawer lay on the floor with papers
scattered round it.
“They took some of the family documents—not all; so far that is good,”
said Uncle Angelo at last.
“Would they had taken them all, precious as they are, and left our poor
little Lily’s money intact!”
“Of course, it’s a misfortune,” said Lily ruefully. “But never mind,
Aunt Cosy. It can’t be helped. I didn’t even keep the numbers of the
notes, so I’m afraid there’s no hope of our ever being able to recover
them. The police court at Epsom is always shut on Sundays, and I suppose
it’s the same here?”
No one answered this remark.
“I cannot understand when it happened!” exclaimed the Countess. She
turned sternly to Cristina. “Did you oversleep yourself?” she asked
accusingly.
“_I_ know when it happened,” said Lily. And then she told the Countess
of her experience of the night before.
“Thank God you did nothing!” said the Count in French, and he really did
look agitated at last. “The brigands might have shot you, had you given
the alarm!”
As for Cristina, she sat down and, with a dreadful groan, threw her
apron over her head and began rocking herself backwards and forwards.
“Be quiet, Cristina!” cried the Countess sharply. But the Count went up
to his foster-sister, and patted her kindly on the head.
“You must come to me when you want a little money, dear child,” said the
Countess, turning to Lily. “Perhaps generous Tom Fairfield will send you
another fifty pounds when he hears of your loss?”
“He won’t hear of my loss for some time,” said Lily, “for he is leaving
England to-day for the West Indies. But never mind, Aunt Cosy. I’ve got
a letter of credit on the bank here.”
The face of the Countess cleared, and even Uncle Angelo looked round at
her, quite an eager look on his fat face.
“I’m very glad to hear that,” said the Countess heartily. “Tom is a very
generous man. There is nothing low or mean about him.”
“He is goodness itself!” said Lily. And then she added a little shyly:
“But the money is really mine, Aunt Cosy. Since my twenty-first
birthday, which was the tenth of last July, I’ve had my own banking
account. As a matter of fact, Uncle Tom wanted to give me a present, but
he didn’t quite know what to get, so he gave me the fifty pounds.”
“Angelo! See whether among your tools you cannot find something that
will at any rate temporarily restore our poor cabinet,” said Aunt Cosy
briskly.
“As for you and I, dear child, we will go out for a little turn in the
garden.”
The little turn consisted in Lily and the Countess walking up and down
the lawn for half an hour.
For the first time Aunt Cosy asked Lily all kinds of questions about
poor Aunt Emmeline’s illness and death—also as to whether she, Aunt
Emmeline, had been a woman of means—whether she had left dear Lily a
legacy—whether The Nest belonged to Uncle Tom, as also the furniture—and
finally, whether Uncle Tom was likely to marry again? This last question
shocked Lily, but it was evidently a very natural one from the speaker’s
point of view.
And then, all at once, the Countess exclaimed: “And how about Miss Rosa
Fairfield? Is she still living?”
“Oh yes!” Lily laughed. “Cousin Rosa is very much alive, though she’s
over eighty. She leads that dull, quiet life so many very old people
like to live. She much disapproved of my coming abroad; she wanted me to
go and spend the winter with _her_.”
“I wonder you did not do it,” said the Countess thoughtfully. “Miss Rosa
must be very rich.”
“Yes,” said Lily. “Cousin Rosa is certainly very rich. But I should have
become melancholy mad—living that sort of life!”
There was a pause. “And who will get her money?” asked the Countess.
Lily hesitated a moment—then, “I believe—in fact I know, for she told
Uncle Tom so three or four years ago—that I am to have most of it, Aunt
Cosy.”
“_You. Lily Fairfield?_”
There was an extraordinary accent of surprise, excitement, and
gratification in Aunt Cosy’s vibrant voice.
She stopped in her vigorous walk and turned and faced the girl. “Oh, you
English?” she exclaimed. “How unemotional and cold you are! You do not
show the slightest joy or excitement when telling this wonderful news.
Why, Miss Rosa Fairfield must have—how much?” As Lily said nothing, the
Countess went on: “A hundred thousand pounds—that is what poor Emmeline
told me!”
“Yes, I believe she has quite that.”
“And you do not feel excited?” The Countess Polda gazed searchingly at
the now flushed girl.
“I suppose I should have felt excited if I’d suddenly learnt the fact,”
said Lily slowly; “But I’ve always known it—in a sort of way. I remember
when I was quite a little girl hearing Aunt Rosa say to Uncle Tom that
she thought she ought to be consulted about what school I was to be sent
to, as I was to be her heiress. But I think Uncle Tom didn’t feel quite
sure about it till two or three years ago. She sent for him on purpose
to read him her will.”
“And what is your fortune apart from that, dear child?” asked the
Countess abruptly.
It was rather an indiscreet thing to ask, but Lily had a straightforward
nature, and, after all, she saw no reason for trying to parry the
question. She had always heard that foreigners were very inquisitive.
“My father left me eight thousand pounds,” she said quietly. “But Uncle
Tom would never take any of the interest of it for my education. He paid
for everything, just as if I had been his daughter. So I have got a
little over ten thousand pounds now—you see, my parents died when I was
such a little child, and the money was very cleverly invested.”
“Ah, yes, poor little thing!” exclaimed the Countess affectionately.
“Well, even that is a pretty fortune for a young girl!”
She waited a moment as if making a calculation. “That would bring
in—yes, if well invested—not far from fifteen thousand francs a year, if
I am right. Then you have the enjoyment of that now, dear child?”
“Yes,” said Lily, “I suppose I have.”
“No wonder you took the disappearance of the fifty pounds in so
philosophical a manner!” the Countess laughed rather harshly.
They walked on a few steps. And then Aunt Cosy said suddenly: “You
should not tell people of this money, Lily. I hope you do not talk
freely to strangers?”
And then the girl did feel a little offended. “I’ve never spoken of my
money matters to any living soul till to-day,” she said with some
vehemence. “And I shouldn’t have said anything to you, Aunt Cosy, if you
hadn’t asked me!”
“Ah, but it was right for me to know. I am your guardian for the moment.
You have been entrusted to me. In Monte Carlo there are many—now what
are they called in England? We have an expression of the kind in Italy,
and there is yet another in France, but it is not so good as the English
expression——”
“What expression is that?” asked Lily.
“_Fortune-hunters_,” said Aunt Cosy grimly.
“Fortune-hunters are not likely to come across my path,” the girl
laughed gaily.
“No, not while you are at La Solitude.”
The Countess smiled, showing her large, good teeth, which somehow looked
false—so even, so strong, so well matched in colour were they. But they
were all her own.
As at last they turned to go into the house, the Countess said suddenly:
“Another Sunday, my dear Lily, I should like you to go to the English
service. It is the proper thing to do.”
Lily felt rather taken aback. “I thought of going this morning,” she
said frankly, “but Cristina seemed to think you would be annoyed if I
went off alone to try and find the place by myself.”
“I will see in the guide-book if there is an afternoon service,” said
the Countess hesitatingly. “Your Uncle Angelo might escort you as far as
the door of the hotel where the English clergyman now officiates. I
should not like you to walk about Monte Carlo alone.”
There was a pause. “I think M. Popeau and Captain Stuart are coming
to-day,” said Lily at last. She could not keep herself from blushing a
little.
“Captain Stuart?” echoed the Countess sharply. “And who, pray, is
Captain Stuart?”
By this time Lily had become rather tired of Aunt Cosy’s constant
questions. “He is a friend of mine,” she said quietly. “Perhaps he won’t
come, but M. Popeau said he meant to do so—don’t you remember, Aunt
Cosy?”
“Yes, I remember now. Well, he seems a very good sort of man——” She
spoke with a touch of condescension in her voice. “And he must be rich,
or he would not be staying at the Hôtel de Paris.”
Lily could not help smiling a little satirically to herself. Aunt Cosy’s
love of money jarred upon her. It reminded her of the story of the man
who, when his wife asked him to call on some people, giving as a reason
that they were very rich, answered: “I would, my dear, if it were
catching!”
Aunt Cosy, perhaps, thought that wealth _was_ catching.