When George Crofton informed Mrs. Brooke that it was while riding
along the road outside the park palings he had seen her husband
leaving the house, he stated no more than the truth; but one little
point he had not seen fit to mention--that he himself was not alone at
the time. When he had recovered from his momentary surprise at seeing
his cousin, he had said to his companion--an extremely handsome young
person in a riding-habit that fitted her like a glove: "Let us put the
pace on a bit, Steph. I've just remembered that there's a call I ought
to make while I'm in this neighbourhood."
A few minutes later they pulled up at the _Beechley Arms_, a country
tavern only a few hundred yards distant from the back entrance to the
park. Here Mr. Crofton had been well known in days gone by; and by the
time he had dismounted and had assisted his companion to alight, the
buxom landlady, all smiles and cap-ribbons, had come to the door to
greet him.
"Why, Master George, it's never you sure-ly," she said. "It seems like
old times come back to see you come riding up just as you used to do."
"Then you have not quite forgotten me, Mrs. Purvis," he said, as he
shook hands with the landlady with that air of easy affability which
he knew so well how to assume. "I don't wish to flatter you, but, on
my honour, you look younger every time I see you."
The landlady smirked and blushed, and said: "Get along with you, do,
sir;" and then led the way to her best parlour, an old-fashioned,
low-ceilinged room, with a diamond-paned window and a broad, cushioned
window-seat.
George ordered some sherry and biscuits to be brought; and as soon as
the landlady had left the room, he said to his companion: "I shall
have to leave you for half-an-hour, Steph, to make the call I spoke of
just now; I shall be sure not to be gone longer. You won't mind, will
you?"
Mademoiselle Stephanie made a little _moue_. "I suppose you will go
whether I mind or not;" she said.
"I _must_ go," he replied. "It is a matter of extreme importance."
"In that case there is nothing more to be said," she answered with a
shrug. A moment later she added: "Only, remember, if you are away much
longer than half-an-hour, Tartar and I will go back home by ourselves,
and leave you to follow at your leisure."
George Crofton laughed. "Never fear, _carissima_; I won't fail to be
back to time. Besides, our dinner will be waiting for us three miles
farther on. Did I tell you that I had ordered it by telegraph before
leaving town?"
"There's one thing neither you nor I must forget," she answered, "and
that is, that I'm due at the _cirque_ at nine o'clock to the minute.
Signor Ventelli never forgives any one who is not there to time."
At this juncture Mrs. Purvis came in with the wine and biscuits.
George hastily swallowed a couple of glasses of sherry; and then,
after giving a few instructions with regard to the horses, and
reiterating his promise not to be gone more than half an hour, he
went.
Mademoiselle Stephanie Lagrange was a very pretty woman--a fact of
which she was perfectly cognisant, as most pretty women are. She had a
profusion of light silky hair, and large steel-gray eyes that were
lacking neither in fire nor audacity. Her lips were thin and rather
finely curved; but her chin was almost too massive to be in proportion
with the rest of her features. Her figure was well-nigh perfect; and
as she was a splendid horsewoman, she never appeared in the Row
without having a hundred pair of eyes focused on her, and a hundred
tongues asking eagerly who she was. In case the reader should put the
same question, it may be as well to state that Mademoiselle Lagrange
was a prominent member of the celebrated Ventelli Circus troupe, on
whose posters and placards she was designated in large letters as
"Queen of the Haute Ecole." Whether Mademoiselle Lagrange was of
French or English extraction was a moot-point with several of those
who knew her best, seeing that she spoke both languages equally well.
Some there were who averred that she spoke English with a slight
French accent, and French with a slight English accent; but be that as
it may, no one knew from her own lips where she was born or of what
nationality her parents had been.
As soon as she was left alone, Stephanie took off her hat and veil and
seated herself on the window seat, from whence she could look into a
strip of old-fashioned garden at the back of the tavern. As she
nibbled at a biscuit and sipped her sherry--Steph was by no means
averse to a glass of good wine--she soliloquised, half aloud: "Why has
my good friend George left me and who is the person he has gone to
see?--Eh bien, cher monsieur, there appear to be certain secrets in
your life of which I know nothing. It must be my business to find out
what they are. I like to have secrets of my own, but I don't like
other people to have secrets from me."
At this point, in came bustling Mrs. Purvis, ostensibly to inquire
whether the lady was in need of anything, but in reality to satisfy in
some measure the cravings of her curiosity. She found Mademoiselle
Stephanie by no means disinclined for a little gossip; only, when she
came to think over the interview afterwards, she discovered that it
was she who had answered all the young lady's questions, but that the
young lady had answered few or none of hers.
Yes; she had known Master George from quite a boy, Mrs. Purvis went on
to say, gratified at finding a listener so ready to her hand. He had
been brought up at the Towers--the great house in the park there--and
everybody thought he would be his uncle's heir. But as he grew up he
fell into bad ways, and all sorts of tales were told about his
extravagance and dissipation; and no doubt he was made out to be far
worse than he really was. At length the old gentleman turned him out
of doors, and made a fresh will in favour of his other nephew, Mr.
Gerald Brooke--he who now lives at the Towers--while Master George had
to content himself with a legacy of five thousand pounds. And then
there was Miss Danby--the late vicar's daughter--whom everybody
thought Master George would marry; but she, too, turned against him,
and married his cousin, so that he lost both his inheritance and his
wife.
"And does this lady whom Mr. Crofton was to have married live at the
place you call the Towers?" asked Stephanie.
"Certainly, miss. She is mistress there; and a very beautiful lady she
is."
"It is her whom he has gone to see," said Stephanie to herself. "He
pretends that he loves me, but he cannot forget her.--So this is your
secret, _cher_ George! I shall know how to make use of it when the
time conies."
Suddenly she started and half rose from her seat. Her eyes had been
caught by something outside the window. She turned quickly on Mrs.
Purvis. "That child--where does he come from? Who is he?"
The landlady's gaze followed hers through the window. "Do you mean
that little fellow on the grass plat who is throwing crumbs to the
birds? He's a mountebank's son, as you may see by his dress. His
father is having some bread-and-cheese in the kitchen. What a shame it
is that such a dear little mite should have to earn his living by
turning head over heels in the streets."
For several moments Stephanie stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the
child. Then, without turning her head, she said: "Thank you. I require
nothing more at present. When I do, I will ring." The tones in which
the words were spoken conveyed more than the words themselves. Mrs.
Purvis bridled like a peacock, shook her cap-ribbons, and marched out
of the room, slamming the door behind her with unnecessary violence.
There were two doors to the room, one by which the landlady had made
her exit, and another which led into the garden. This second door
Stephanie now opened, and at the sound the boy raised his eyes. She
beckoned to him, and he came forward. It may be that he had visions of
more fruit and sugared biscuits.
Stephanie drew him a little way into the room, and going down on one
knee, she passed an arm round his waist. It was evident that she was
full of suppressed emotion. The conversation that ensued was carried
on in French.
"Tell me your name, _cheri_."
"Henri Picot, mademoiselle."
She had known what the answer would be; but for a moment or two her
lips blanched, while she murmured something the boy could not hear.
"And your father?" she said at last.
"He is here, indoors. Poor papa was tired; he is resting himself."
"Does your papa treat you kindly, Henri?"
The boy stared at her. "Papa always treats me kindly.--Why should he
not?"
"And your mamma?" said Stephanie with bated breath.
Henri shook his head. "I have no mamma," he answered with a ring of
childish pathos in his voice. "She has gone a long, long journey, and
no one knows when she will come back. Papa does not like me to talk
about her--it makes him so sad. But sometimes I see her in my sleep,
and then she looks beautiful, and smiles at me. Some day, perhaps, she
will come back to papa and me."
She kissed him passionately, to the boy's wonderment. Then with a
half-sob in her voice, she said: "But you have a sister, have you not?"
Henri's large eyes grew larger. "No; I have no sister," he answered
with a shake of his head.
"But you had one once, had you not? Does your papa never speak of
her?"
"No; never. I had a mamma, but I never had a sister."
For a moment or two Stephanie buried her face on the child's shoulder.
What thoughts, what memories of the past, rushed through her brain as
she did so? "Cast off and forgotten!" was the mournful cry wrung from
her heart.
Suddenly a voice outside was heard calling, "Henri, Henri, où es tu?"
followed by a note or two on the pipes and a tap on the drum.
"Papa is calling me; I must go," said the boy.
Stephanie started to her feet, and lifting him in her arms, kissed him
wildly again and again. Then setting him down, she pressed some money
into his hand and turned away without another word. Henri darted off.
"He is gone--gone--and perhaps I shall never see him again!" She sank
on her knees and buried her face in the cushions of the window-seat.
Her whole frame shook with the sobs that would no longer be
suppressed.
Five minutes later George Crofton entered the room. For a few seconds
he paused in utter amazement; then going forward, he laid a hand on
the girl's shoulder. "Steph," he said, "Steph--why, what's amiss?" As
he spoke his eyes rested for a moment on Picot and Henri, who were
crossing the grass-plat hand in hand.