A LUNATIC’S LETTER.
John Bradfield was equal to the occasion. Turning so that he faced
Marrable, he answered at once:
“Gilbert Wryde’s money! Oh, he left it in the hands of trustees, of
course.”
There was a pause, and John turned away, as if feeling that he had
satisfied his companion’s thirst for information. But presently
Marrable spoke again, and his manner was somewhat lacking in that
respect for the rich man which had characterised it on his first
arrival:
“You’re one of the trustees, I suppose?”
John Bradfield, very unused of late years to being spoken to in this
way, answered curtly enough:
“Yes, I’m one of them. Anything more you want to know?”
“Only this--who are the others?”
“Men you’ve never heard of. Old chums of Wryde’s.”
“Do they live in England?”
“No; out in Australia.”
“Oh!”
This exclamation might be taken as signifying assent, and it was thus
that John Bradfield chose to take it; and the subject was dropped out
of their talk, if not out of their minds.
The assiduity with which John Bradfield tended his old friend was
wonderful. It was remarked that he scarcely let anybody else go near
him; that he slept in Marrable’s room, and even served him with his own
hands. It escaped remark that on rare occasions when John Bradfield did
leave the apartment of his friend, he took care first to send Stelfox
out on some errand which would take a considerable time to execute.
Mr. Bradfield’s doubts of Stelfox’s trustworthiness were increasing.
Taking the bull by the horns, as his custom was when hard pressed, Mr.
Bradfield took the servant severely to task for suffering Mr. Richard
to get loose again, and ended by threatening him with instant dismissal
if it should occur again.
At this Stelfox looked up.
“Do you mean that, sir?”
“I do, indeed.”
“And what--what, sir, would you do with Mr. Richard, if you did send me
away?”
There was some spirit in the servant’s question; there was more in the
master’s answer:
“That’s my business!”
And Stelfox, with a glance at his master’s resolute face, made
submission.
The day following the accident being Boxing-day, Mrs. Graham-Shute
asked and obtained permission from her host to extend her visit, and
that of her family, until the day after. It was impossible to go out,
much less to travel, on such a day as that, she said.
In spite of this impossibility, however, Mrs. Graham-Shute stayed
out nearly the whole of the morning, looking for a suitable house in
which she could settle with her family, to fulfil her kind promise of
“looking after dear cousin John.” Of course, it was the worst day
she could have chosen for her expedition, as the agents’ offices were
closed, and the caretakers were making a holiday. But, being a woman
of great valour and determination, just when these qualities were
unnecessary and inconvenient, she ferreted out the unhappy agents,
and made them unlock their books for her benefit, and she chivied the
caretakers away from their dinners to attend her over the empty houses,
only to declare at the end of the day’s work that she had never met
such an uncivil set of people in her life--never!
Mrs. Graham-Shute found, moreover, cause of bitter complaint in other
directions. The rents were absurdly high, for one thing. She had
imagined that in a hole of a place like this you would be able to pick
up a house, with thirteen rooms and a nice garden, for next to nothing.
Indeed, to hear her talk, one would have imagined that she looked upon
the honour done to a dwelling by her residence within its walls as
an equivalent to rent and taxes. The poor lady was quite hurt at the
local ingratitude. It was enough, as she said at luncheon-time, to the
amusement of dear cousin John, to make one stay in town.
“Why on earth don’t you, my dear?” murmured her husband, who had
strenuously opposed the proposed flight to this clubless and remote
region, and who knew very well that the love of change had much to do
with his wife’s determination to move; and the belief that she would
be a great person down here, while in town it had been forced upon her
that she was only a very small one indeed.
His wife looked at him reproachfully.
“My dear, you know as well as possible that we must economise for
the sake of the children,” she said, with a sigh and a glance at her
cousin, as if sure that he would approve her sentiments.
It was fashionable to economise, so Mrs. Graham-Shute was always
talking about it; and there it ended. Her husband had suffered from
this idiosyncrasy, and he went on in an aggrieved tone:
“Why can’t you begin at Bayswater, and save moving expenses?
Everything’s cheaper in town than here, and you’ve something to talk
about besides the health of the pigs.”
But Maude went breezily on:
“Ah, but in town you’re tempted to buy things; my feminine heart can’t
resist a bargain. Now, here,” she ended triumphantly, “you can’t spend
money, because there’s nothing to buy!”
Here John Bradfield struck into the conversation.
“Isn’t there, though? There are bargains to be had here as well as in
town, as I have found to my cost.”
Maude smiled at this remark, having only frowned at her husband’s. And,
of course, she remained unconvinced.
Mrs. Graham-Shute spent her own and her daughters’ afternoon in making
a list of the houses they had seen, with their several defects and good
qualities. The former consisted, not in imperfect drainage and “stuffy”
bed-rooms, but in “reception rooms” too small for the entertainments by
which she proposed to dazzle the neighbourhood.
Meanwhile, Donald, left to his own devices, tried hard to contrive an
interview with Chris, who had, during the last day or two, avoided him
with a persistency which nettled him exceedingly. During the last
conversation he had had with her, she had reproached him with following
her about at the suggestion of his mother. While greatly annoyed and
offended by her perspicacity, it had not made him less anxious for the
flirtation he had promised himself with such an “awfully pretty girl.”
This being the last day of his stay at Wyngham Lodge, he felt that he
must come to such an understanding with her as would pave the way for a
welcome when he and his family should return to Wyngham for a permanent
residence.
When, therefore, Donald saw Chris walking in the garden, he put on
his hat and sauntered out there too. It was on the south side of the
house that Chris was walking, and she appeared to be looking at nothing
but the sea. As she drew near the east wing, however, she glanced up
from time to time shyly at the windows. On hearing footsteps on the
path behind her, she turned quickly, and flushed, with an unmistakable
expression of disappointment, on coming face to face with Donald. He
was taken aback; his vanity was wounded; and instead of addressing her
as he had intended, he stepped aside for her to pass him, and followed
the path she had been taking towards the east-end of the house. Angry
and mortified, he went on as far as the enclosed portion of the
grounds. And here, lying on the ground just within the locked gate, he
saw an envelope lying on the damp grass. Stooping, and putting his hand
through the wire fence, he found that the envelope was just within his
reach. Drawing it through, he discovered that it contained a letter,
that it was directed to “Miss Christina Abercarne,” and that it was too
dry to have lain there long.
While he was turning the missive over in his hand, and looking about
him, considering from what quarter the letter could have come, Chris
bore down upon him with a crimson face and very bright eyes.
“That note is for me, is it not?” said she, as she managed to see the
superscription.
Now Donald was not particularly chivalrous, and he thought it quite
fair that he should find some advantage to himself in his discovery. So
he said, holding the letter behind him:
“What are you going to give me not to tell?”
Chris drew herself up haughtily.
“I am not going to give you anything, Mr. Shute. But you will have to
give me my letter.”
“And you won’t mind if I repeat this little anecdote, say, at the
dinner-table to-night?”
“Not a bit. And you, I dare say, won’t mind what I shall think of you?”
It was his turn to blush now. He stammered out that, of course, he was
only in fun, and he handed her the letter in the most sheepish and
shame-faced manner. Although she took it from him very coolly, to all
appearance, a strange thrill went through her as she held it, and knew
unfamiliar as the handwriting was, from whom it came.
Donald stared at her. For there had flashed over her face a strange
look, half gladness, half sorrow, and he felt with jealousy that some
other man had roused in her the feeling he would have liked her to have
for himself. For a moment she seemed hardly conscious that she was
not alone; then recovering herself quickly, she remembered that this
wretched youth had the power, if he liked, to increase the misfortunes
of a man who was unlucky enough already. So she said, catching her
breath, and speaking with a most eloquent moisture in her eyes, and
with a tremor in her voice which few male creatures could have resisted:
“Of course--I believe you, I believe what you said--that you were only
in fun. You would not care to bring real misery upon--anybody, would
you?”
Donald was touched, and he reddened, under the influence of a kindly
emotion, even more deeply than he had done with anger.
“You may trust me,” was all he said.
Christina held out her hand, taking it away again, however, before he
had time to do more than hold it for a half second in his.
“Thank you--very much,” said she, as she hurried away.