CICELY ASKS A QUESTION
After all, it was the woman who sought him who passed him by, her
unwilling companion who recognised him at once, in spite of his altered
dress and bearing. They were swallowed up in the crowd before Douglas
had recovered himself. Something in Cicely's terrified gaze had
instantly checked his first instinct which prompted him to accost them.
They were gone, leaving him alike speechless and bewildered. He
staggered into a small restaurant, and sitting at an unoccupied table,
called for a bottle of wine.
With the first draught his courage returned, his mental perspective
commenced to rearrange itself. Cicely and Joan were in London, Cicely
had seen him, Joan had not. From the first he had realised that there
was danger to him in this encounter. Cicely had seen him, but she had
made no motion of recognition, she had obviously refrained from telling
her sister of his near presence. From this he concluded that whilst she
believed in him and was still his friend, Joan was his enemy. He rolled
a cigarette with nervous fingers, and lighted it. Did Joan suspect that
he was still alive? and was she looking for him? To the world in
general Douglas Guest was dead. How was it with these two girls? There
were various small reasons why they might be inclined to doubt what to
other people would seem obvious. He recalled Joan's face, grim and
forbidding enough, almost a tragical figure in her black garb, as severe
and sombre as a country dressmaker could fashion it. He must get to
know these things. He must find Cicely. He walked thoughtfully back to
the offices of the Courier, where he found some work, which, for the
time, completely engrossed him.
The next morning the following advertisement appeared in most of the
London newspapers.
"To C. S. I must see you. British Museum to-day at six."
For three days Douglas watched in vain. On the fourth his heart gave a
great leap, for a sombre little figure stepped out from an omnibus at
the corner of Russell Square and stood hesitatingly upon the pavement,
looking in through the iron bars at the Museum. He came across the
street to her boldly--she turned and saw him. After all, their greeting
approached the conventional. He remembered to raise his hat--she held
out her hand--would have withdrawn it, but found it already clasped in
his.
"Cicely. How good of you. You saw my advertisement?"
"Yes."
"And you saw me in the Strand, but you would not speak to me. Was that
because of Joan?"
"Yes."
"I want to talk to you," he said. "I have so much to say."
She raised her eyes to his, and he saw for the first time how much
thinner she was.
"Douglas," she said, "there is something I must ask you first of all
before I stay with you for a moment. Must I put it into words?"
"I do not think you need, Cicely," he answered. "I went to your
father's room that night beyond a doubt, but I never raised my hand
against him. I should have very hard work to prove it, I fancy, but I
am wholly innocent of his death--innocent, that is to say, so far as any
direct action of mine was concerned."
She drew a long deep breath of relief. Then she looked up to him with a
beautiful smile.
"Douglas," she said, "I was sure of it, yet it is a great weight from my
heart to hear you say so. Now, can you take me somewhere where we can
talk? I am afraid of the streets. I will tell you why afterwards."
He called a hansom and handed her in. After a moment's hesitation he
gave the address of the restaurant where he had first met Rice.
"It is only a shabby little place," he explained to her, apologetically,
"but we can talk there freely."
"Anywhere," she answered; "how strange it seems to be here--in London
with you."
There was a sense of unreality about it to him, but he only laughed.
"Now tell me about Joan."
She hesitated.
"It will not be pleasant."
"I do not deserve that it should be," he answered gravely.
"She has always been quite sure that it was not you who was killed in
the railway accident. She even imbued me with that belief."
"Her instinct there, at any rate, was true enough," he answered.
"She also believes," Cicely continued, more slowly, "that you robbed and
murdered Father."
Douglas shivered. It was hard even now to recall that night unmoved.
"Well?"
"She has made up her mind that you are in London, and that sooner or
later she will find you."
"And if she does?"
"She has been to Scotland Yard. They will arrest you."
The cab pulled up with a jerk, and a commissionaire threw open the
apron. Douglas handed his companion out, and they entered the
restaurant together. In a distant corner they found a table to
themselves, and he ordered dinner.
"Well, we are safe from Joan here for a little time, at any rate," he
said, laughing. "Are you living with her, then?"
Cicely nodded.
"Yes. We have left the farm. There was very little money, you know,
after all, and Joan and I will have to take situations. At present we
are living upon our capital in the most shameful way. I am afraid she
is completely absorbed by one idea--it is horrible."
"It is odd that she should be so vindictive," he said, wearily.
Cicely shrugged her shoulders. She was intensely interested in the
little brown pot of soup which the waiter had brought them.
"Joan is very peculiar," she said. "When I think of her I feel like a
doll. She is as strong as steel. I think that she cared for you,
Douglas, and, putting aside everything else, you behaved shamefully to
her."
"She is not like other women," he answered decidedly. "Her caring for
me was not a matter of sentiment. Her father ordered, and she obeyed.
She knew quite well that it was exactly the same with me. I have never
uttered a word of affection to her in my life. Our engagement was an
utter farce."
"Still I believe she cared," Cicely continued; "and I believe that,
apart from anything else, a sort of slow anger towards you is rankling
in her heart all the time."
"I was a coward," Douglas said decidedly. "Even now I cannot understand
why for a moment I ever accepted such an impossible situation."
Cicely showed all her teeth--she had fine, white teeth--in a brilliant
smile.
"Joan would be quite handsome," she said, "if she were decently
dressed."
"Some people might think so," he answered. "She wouldn't be my style.
I think I agreed, because in those days we all seemed to do exactly what
your Father ordered. Besides, the thing was sprung upon me so suddenly.
It took my breath away.
"That was rather like Father," she remarked. "He liked taking us by
storm. Now I want to hear how you have got on, and what you are doing.
Let us drop the past for a little while, at any rate."
He poured her out a glass of wine, and found time to notice how pretty
she was, with her slightly flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
"I am on a newspaper," he said, "the _Daily Courier_. I got on quite by
chance, and they are going to keep me."
She looked at him with keen interest.
"How delightfully fortunate!" she exclaimed. "It is what you wanted all
your life, isn't it? And the _Ibex_ story?
"Will appear next month. I have lots of orders for others too. The
first thing I wrote for the Courier was quite successful."
She looked at him wistfully. "Couldn't you send it to me?" she asked.
He took out pencil and paper.
"Of course. Give me your address."
She began, but stopped short with a little cry.
"Whatever am I doing!" she exclaimed. "Why, Douglas, you mustn't think
of writing nor of sending anything to me. Joan might see it, and she
would know your handwriting in a moment."
He paused with the pencil in his hand.
"That's rather a nuisance," he said. "Isn't there somewhere else I can
write?"
She shook her head regretfully.
"I'm afraid not."
"It is rather ridiculous," he said frowning. "I don't want to go about
in fear and trembling all my life. Don't you think that if I were to
see her or write to you I could convince--"
She stopped him, horrified.
"Douglas," she said, "you don't understand Joan. I am not sure that
even I, who live with her, do. She reminds me sometimes of those women
of the French revolution. There is a light in her eyes when she speaks
of you, which makes me shiver. Stay in London if you must, but pray
always that chance may not bring you two together."
He answered her with an affectation of lightness, but her words were not
without effect upon him. He paid the bill and she lowered her veil.
Out in the street he would have called a hansom, but she checked him.
"An omnibus, if you please, Douglas!" she exclaimed. "Joan would never
forgive me the extravagance if she saw me in a cab. I can find one at
the corner, and I should feel so much more comfortable if you would
leave me here."
He looked down at her and realised once more the dainty Watteau--like
grace of her oval face and slim, supple figure. He thought of the days
when they had stolen out together on to the hillside, oftenest in the
falling twilight, sometimes even in the grey dawn, and his heart beat
regretfully. How was it that in those days he had never more fully
realised her charms?
"I hate letting you go alone," he said, truthfully; "and I certainly
cannot let you go like this, without any idea as to your whereabouts."
"We are staying in Wensum Street," she said. "I tell you that you may
avoid the neighbourhood. If I am to see you again, it certainly must
not be there."
"Why not here?" he urged; "next Thursday night--say at half-past six. I
must not lose sight of you again--so soon."
She raised her eyes quickly. It was pleasant to her to think that he
cared.
"I think I could manage that," she said, softly.
Douglas went off to his club with a keen sense of having acquired a new
interest in life. He was in that mood when companionship of some sort
is a necessity.