BY taking the path through the wood she had cut off a wide curve of the
main road. She was nearly home. Already the few remaining lights of the
village bade her welcome back to dullness.
“Five years!” she said to herself, “and I may live in it for fifty more.”
Kitty Carstairs scarcely remembered her mother. She had been brought—or
allowed to bring herself up—by her father, a Glasgow journalist of
brilliant parts and erratic methods, a wretched manager of his worldly
affairs, a delightful guest, an entertaining host, and altogether a very
lovable fellow. Kitty adored him, and ignored his weaknesses and
eccentricities. When he died after a long illness, she wished she might
follow him quickly. He left a little money, and just enough debts to eat
it up, five MSS. of novels, two collections of travel sketches, and a
play—all in a more or less unfinished state—and a letter to Kitty’s only
relatives, the brother and sister of his dead wife.
Kitty never saw the contents of that letter; all she knew was that it
seemed to procure her a home with John Corrie and his sister in the
village of Dunford.
For many years John Corrie had been postmaster as well as proprietor of a
flourishing general store, the only shop of importance in the place. A
canny man and a far-sighted was John Corrie, grasping but not exactly
mean. If the villagers did not love him, they respected his success. He
had “got on” marvellously. Apart from the store he owned a mill, bought
for an old song from the trustee of a bankrupt, and a coal yard taken
over from an unlucky merchant and mortgagee. Also he had invested
savings in land and houses. For some years, also, he had indulged in
more speculative transactions. He was a tall, gaunt man with small, pale
blue eyes, a long melancholy nose, a tight mouth, and high prominent
cheek-bones over scanty grizzling whiskers, which ran into a short untidy
beard. His head was quite bald. He was an abstainer, and a regular
attender at public worship, though not an office-bearer of the church.
His sister Rachel assisted him capably in the store. She may have been a
good-looking maiden; now she was a scraggy, drear-visaged creature with a
curiously suspicious manner and a craze for doing everything precisely as
her mother had done it. She seemed to object to youth discovering or
making use of a new method. She was mean in some ways, but, perhaps for
lack of courage, not so grasping as her brother. To him she was devoted.
Kitty attended to the post-office which served a district sparsely
populated, but of considerable extent. She had never received a penny
for this. On the other hand her relations did not grudge her in board,
lodging and clothing; and twice a year they gave her a pound to spend as
she liked. She divided the money on “pretty things” and books. Books,
by the way, had initiated the friendship between her and Colin Hayward.
He had lent her many, but only one at a time, for the thing had to be
done secretly; but he, at least, preferred “one at a time,” since it
meant frequent meetings during his holidays.
As Kitty neared the cottage, which was ancient looking without but fairly
modern within, and which was connected with the store and post-office,
she was suddenly informed by her eyes that the room on the right of the
door was illuminated. Unless on a Sunday night, it was a rare thing to
see a light in the parlour. The Corries received few visitors, with the
exception of Alec Symington, the owner of White Farm, and a familiar
guest like him was expected to feel at home in the kitchen.
The girl was uncertain what to do. She rejected the temptation to steal
upstairs to bed; she was not going to let them think she was afraid of
them at this time of day! Well, there was nothing for it but to go into
the kitchen and wait. Noiselessly she entered and seated herself in a
wicker chair.
A moment later the silence in the opposite room was broken, and by her
aunt’s voice raised to an unusual pitch.
“The more I think on it, John Corrie, the more I see what a fool ye’ve
been. To take fifty pound for a thing that’s come worth twenty
thousand—that’ll maybe yet be worth thirty, forty, ay fifty thousand—”
“Hold your tongue, woman!” Kitty scarcely recognized her uncle’s voice.
“How could I, or anybody, ha’ foreseen that the shares would go up? Five
year ago the broker in Glasgow told us they were rubbish. Six months ago
ye agreed I had done well to get fifty pound for them from Symington—”
“Oh, he knew what he was doing—he knew, though you didn’t!”
“I don’t believe he did. He’s been daft about gold mines for years.
He’d ha’ been ruined by now if his father hadna died and left him White
Farm. I tell ye, Rachel, he bought the five thousand shares off me with
his eyes shut, just for a speculation. Don’t talk! Ye know well ye were
as sick-tired as I was o’ seeing the certificates lying in the safe, wi’
never a ha’penny o’ interest to—”
“No, no, John, we’ve been cheated—don’t care what ye say—and it’s maybe a
judgment on us—”
“That’s enough! Ye mun make the best o’ a bad job. And it’ll maybe no
be so bad in the end.” Corrie let out a laugh. “Ye’ll no complain if we
get half o’ whatever he gets for the shares, when he sells them.”
“Oh, dinna begin on that again. He’ll never pay up.”
“Ay, he’ll pay up. I’ve got his bond in my pocket!”
“Ye didna tell me! How did ye manage it?”
Corrie replied, but he had lowered his voice and only a murmur reached
Kitty’s ears. She was not interested in her uncle’s affairs generally,
but it was something new to hear of his having been “done,” for “done”
was the word that came into her mind the moment she understood
Symington’s part in the business. Eavesdropping, however, was not one of
her weaknesses, and she rose with the intention of making known her
presence in the house.
Just then her aunt’s voice rose in a sort of screech of incredulity—
“But she’ll never consent!”
“We’ll see about that. Leave it to me.”
Once more the voices became indistinct. In the kitchen doorway Kitty
stopped short. Whom were they talking about now? Herself? When had her
consent ever been asked for anything? For a few moments she hesitated,
tempted to lay her ear against the parlour door. Then throwing up her
head, she stepped softly along the passage and shut the front door with a
bang.
As she turned from it the parlour door was snatched open, and her uncle’s
face peered out. His brow was glistening and his eyes held gleams of
excitement; but his voice was curiously mild.
“Come in here for a minute, Kitty,” he said.
She followed him into the room, wondering. This was not the customary
reception on her return from seeing the London mail go by, and she was
later to-night than ever she had been. Her aunt, sitting with folded
hands on one side of the fern-filled hearth, gave her an instant’s
glance, which conveyed nothing, and resumed staring at the folded,
toil-worn hands in her lap. Her uncle took his chair on the other side,
saying—
“Sit down. Ye’re late, but maybe ye’ve a good reason for that.” It may
have been a smile that distorted, for a moment, his thin lips.
Kitty drew a chair from the table, seated herself and waited. She had
learned long ago never to open a conversation with these two.
Mr. Corrie rubbed his hairy jaw between finger and thumb, cleared his
throat, and said, almost pleasantly—“Well, did he meet ye?”
It was an unexpected question, and she could not answer immediately.
He helped her by adding, “Ye needna be shy. Mr. Symington left here
half-an-hour back to look for ye.”
“No,” she answered, “he didn’t meet me.” Strange that her uncle should
speak of the man as “Mr.”
“Eh? No.” She repeated. “He didn’t meet me.”
“That’s queer.” Uncle and aunt exchanged glances, and the latter asked.
“Where were ye to-night?”
“At the railway.”
“And ye didn’t see Mr. Symington?”
“Yes. I saw him—at a distance.”
There was a pause before Mr. Corrie spoke with less smoothness than
previously.
“Did ye keep away from him!”
“Not more than usual.”
“I want a plain answer.”
“No.”
“Then—who was wi’ ye at the time?”
Kitty flushed and went pale. “Mr. Colin Hayward.”
“What? That useless waster! Were ye not forbidden to ha’ any
acquaintance—”
“And he’s failed again in his examinations!” cried Miss Corrie. “It’s
the talk o’ the place.”
“What ha’ ye to say for yourself?” roared her brother.
“Nothing,” came the quiet answer; “nothing that would satisfy you or Aunt
Rachel. I had no intention of meeting Mr. Hayward to-night, but when I
did meet him I was not going to pretend I did not know him because he had
failed in an examination. And before long I was very glad I had met him,
for his presence kept away Mr. Symington. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll
go to bed—”
A warning glance from his sister caused Mr. Corrie to strive for
self-control.
“Sit still,” he said shortly. “Ye know perfectly well it’s no the thing
for you to be walking wi’ one o’ the Haywards. Mrs. Hayward, as ye’re
maybe not unaware, complained about it last year—”
“That’ll do, John,” interposed Miss Corrie, observing the girl’s burning
cheeks. “We’re as good as the Haywards any day, but we’d best forget
that affair. Now that Kitty’s heard about it, she’ll know what to do in
future.”
Kitty mastered the quiver of her pretty mouth, and with a quick movement
brushed the tears from her dark eyes, and looked straight at her uncle.
“Please tell me at once,” she said, “what Mr. Symington wanted with me.”
The directness of the question had a disconcerting effect on Mr. Corrie.
“Maybe you could guess,” he mumbled at last.
Kitty ignored the invitation.
“Ye’d best tell her, Rachel,” said Mr. Corrie.
“Mr. Symington is anxious to marry ye,” the woman said in little more
than a whisper.
Without haste Kitty got up and moved to the door. Turning there, she
faced them both. Her voice was clear and steady—
“I would not marry Mr. Symington for—for twenty thousand pounds.”
The man sprang to his feet, but she was gone, the door closed behind her.
“Almighty!” he gasped, sinking back into his chair.
“What’s wrong wi’ ye?” cried his sister. “I warned ye she would never
consent.”
“She’ll consent yet!” he said, with a suppressed oath. “But—but what
made her name twenty thousand pounds?”
* * * * *
It was nearly an hour later when Colin reached his father’s house.
Hayward Senior was not precisely a heartless man, but he was totally
without imagination.
Seated—one dares to say “posed”—at an extremely orderly writing-table in
his fine old library—he received his youngest son with a stern look and
motioned him to be seated. He was in evening dress, and you would never
have taken him for anything but a gentleman—in the narrow sense of the
word.
“You are late,” he said presently. “Where have you been?”
“Walking about. It’s a lovely night.”
Mr. Hayward smiled bitterly. “Were you alone?”
“Most of the time.” Colin looked at his father. “I met Miss Carstairs,
and we talked for a little while.”
“Who on earth is Miss Carstairs?” Mr. Hayward did not wait for an answer
to his ironic question. “You mean the young woman in the local
post-office, I presume; the young woman, in fact, with whom your wretched
philanderings—”
“That’s enough, father!” The young man rose quickly. “Let us leave Miss
Carstairs out of—”
“Well, I trust you have informed her as to your income and prospects.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Usual thing in the circumstances—is it not?”
“I don’t understand you. What circumstances?”
“Tut!” exclaimed Mr. Hayward, “don’t you intend to marry the grocer’s
daughter—beg her pardon—niece—”
Colin barely restrained the fury that paled his face. “You may take my
word for it,” he said, “that Miss Carstair’s certainly does not intend to
marry me.”
“Really! She must be a generous young person to give her kisses for
nothing.”
There was an ugly silence. The son took a step forward, his hands
clenched at his sides.
“Since when,” he asked at length, “have you been employing a private
detective?”
A dull flush overran the older man’s countenance. “Be careful! The
information was not sought by me.”
“Who gave it?”
“You are welcome to guess.” He flicked a folded note across the table.
It was addressed in pencil to “T. H. Hayward, Esq.,” marked “Urgent,” had
evidently been torn from a notebook, and had been sealed with a scrap of
stamp paper. “The servant found it under the hall door, about an hour
ago. That’s all I can tell you.”
Colin opened it, and his face burned as he read—
“A friend advises you that your youngest son and the post-office girl
were kissing in the wood to-night.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hayward, “do you know the writing?”
His son made a gesture of negation. “May I keep this?” he managed to say
presently.
“No,” said the other, holding out his hand for the paper. “I will keep
it—and God help the person who wrote it, when I find him or her!” Next
moment he resumed his cold manner and incisive tone. “All that, however,
does not exonerate you, though I am not going to dwell on the unsavoury
subject of your disgrace—”
“There is no disgrace!” hotly cried Colin.
His father smiled wearily. “Apparently we shall not agree on the meaning
of the word. Now may I ask: what are you going to do?”
“As I told you, I am going to London,” replied Colin, holding himself in.
“And then?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Very well.” Mr. Hayward opened a drawer and took out a small bundle of
notes. He threw them on to the table, saying, “A hundred pounds. Do as
you like, but don’t ask for more—for your own sake.”
“Father,” cried Colin, his anger lost in bitter humiliation. “I swear I
did my best at college, only I wasn’t fitted for—”
“We have already discussed that. By the way, I would suggest that you
make it convenient to leave here early in the morning instead of
to-morrow night, and so spare, in some measure, the feelings of your
mother and sisters—”
“You are heartless! I will leave the house now!”
“Please no, unless you desire to start a scandal among the servants, and
another in the village.”
“Oh, you are worse than heartless; you are unjust. . . . But I will wait
till the morning. Good-bye.” Colin turned and moved towards the door.
“Stay! You have forgotten your money.”
Without looking back Colin went out.
When Mr. Hayward went to bed, half-an-hour later, he
left—deliberately—the notes lying on his writing-table.
At 6.30 a.m. Colin entered a closed carriage, and with his modest baggage
was driven to the station. There had been no farewells, and on the whole
he did not regret their absence, for he knew they would have been highly
seasoned with reproaches and unwelcome advice. He took a ticket for
Glasgow.
Having heard the carriage drive away, Mr. Hayward in his dressing gown
came down to the library. Where the notes had been he found a scrap of
paper—
I.O.U.
One hundred pounds.
C. H. Hayward.
He smiled sardonically, muttering, “I thought he would climb down,” and
put the I.O.U. beside the anonymous note of last night, in his safe.