Chapter XII: A Confidence: and Some Spying

Madam lay nearly flat on her back under the canopy of her great fourpost bed. Her sunken eyes followed Miss Innes curiously as she measured a dose of medicine into a glass.

Approaching the bed the girl stopped, slipped an arm under the thin shoulder-blades and, lifting her patient, administered the draught.

"That's to lower your temperature," said she encouragingly. "You will feel much better when you are less feverish."

As she rearranged the bed and rinsed the glass, she gave news of the beloved fowls. Kitty, one of the buff Orpingtons, regardless of the time of year, had insisted upon "going broody," and Mrs. Baxter, having tried various cures in vain, had at last given her a "clutch" of eggs. Madam speculated sadly upon the problem of keeping the chickens alive when hatched.

Olwen hopefully suggested that the weather might be very different in six weeks' time.

"It won't. Not for months and months. You don't know this place. This accursed place," added Madam faintly under her breath.

"Oh, don't call it that! I find it extraordinarily fascinating. Nothing else like it anywhere, is there?"

"Let's hope not. Ah, it's all very fine for you to laugh. If you had been through all I have undergone----" She broke off, muttering to herself. Olwen could see that she was under the influence of fever, and spoke soothingly.

"I'm sorry. I hardly know why I laughed. Laughter comes easily to me, I think."

"You're lucky. I never had a merry nature; and, if I could have seen into my future----"

She moved restlessly, while Olwen sat down near with her knitting.

Silence fell. How intense silence could be in that place! The thick walls shut off each room in a solitude of its own. No sounds of daily life arose to the listening ear; one might be isolated from everyone else in the world. As Olwen meditated on this the hush was broken by the voice of Madam, who began to speak in a low, monotonous narrative.

"I was born in a palace--a mansion on Streatham Hill, standing in a great park. My father rose from small beginnings to be one of the richest men in England. He was very ambitious for me, his only child. In the course of business he had come across Lord Caryngston, and had been able to oblige his lordship pretty substantially. It was arranged, in return, that her ladyship should present me at Court and invite me to her house to meet her friends. That was how I came to know Ninian Guyse. My father did not like the match, but he wanted me to be happy, and I was spoiled and wilful. I was head over ears in love. What a fool! Ah, what a fool! Ninian Guyse was as deep in debt as I in love, and only wanted my fortune."

"Oh, don't say that!" cried the girl.

The wistful eyes were turned upon her face. "It's true," she said defiantly. "Why should I not say it? Oh, I suppose you mean I ought not to say it to you! But that will be all right, as long as you don't tell Ninian." The drawn face assumed a look of deep cunning. "Not a word to my son, or to ayah. Understand? Why not our little secrets, you and me? ... Where was I? Oh, yes, we were married, you know, and as long as my father lived he exercised some kind of control, but, to my deep misfortune, he died, and then there was nothing to hold my husband. He went from bad to worse. I would not live with him at last. The twins and I usually lived in London and he at Danley, our Yorkshire place. He was an excellent jockey, and he sometimes rode his own horses. That was how he caught his death ... riding a race he felt certain of winning. He meant, if he pulled that off, to turn over a new leaf, or so he said. He just failed, and standing about afterwards he took a chill."

"And died?"

"Yes. It turned to pneumonia, and he made no sort of fight. Disappointment had beaten him down. I think he was sorry just at the end; but it was too late then, he had taken everything from me--my love, my fortune--and flung it all away. Until he was dead I had no idea how completely he had ruined us. It was the twins' last term at Rugby; they were going to Oxford that autumn. When he found out how things were, Ninian said we must sell all our other houses, and the yacht and the racing stables, and come and live here. I wanted to sell this horrible place too, but Ninian would not hear of it. So terribly masterful--just like his father. He always was a farmer at heart; he loves the land. Wilfrid is so different----"

At the mention of the name of this beloved son the whole tone of Madam's voice changed. Colour stole into her cheeks, a thrill into her voice. "Do you see that photo on the dressing-table, in the silver frame! Bring it to me."

Olwen brought the picture to the bedside. Unless it was flattered, Wilfrid Guyse was indeed a handsome man. There was a likeness--even a strong likeness--to his twin, especially in general outline; but his hair was evidently fair and his expression wholly different. There was no bravado, no sign of a sneer, in these clear, well-opened eyes. The carriage of the head was fine, with the unconscious confidence of race.

"Do you like it?" The acme of maternal pride surged beneath the quiet question.

Olwen started. The portrait had fascinated her. "Like it? Oh, yes. There is a great likeness to his brother, is there not?"

Mrs. Guyse laughed in pure scorn. "Wait until you see them together," said she. "Nobody would look at poor Nin while Wolf was present. Though I say it, he is all the fondest mother could desire."

"Does he come home much?" asked Olwen, with a good deal of curiosity as to the answer.

"Not so much as I could wish. He is secretary to Mr. Borrowleigh, who is in the Cabinet, you know. London is far from Guysewyke, and they work him terribly hard, poor boy. He tried nobly to retrieve the family fortunes when he left Oxford--went to Klondyke, starved and toiled--you would never think it to look at him, would you? My poor darling! It was too much for him. He broke down and had to come home and begin all over again. However, his health is now quite restored."

"This photo was taken recently?"

"He had it done for my Christmas present."

Olwen slowly replaced the frame upon the table. When she turned round Mrs. Guyse had raised herself erect, and her face was darkly flushed. There was a disturbed look in her eyes. "I've been talking--talking," she muttered. "Ninian said I should be sure to talk."

"Well, why not?" asked Olwen gently. "I am your secretary, and your affairs are private to me. I am in the same position as a doctor, you know. What you say to me is a professional secret. But I think you have talked enough, and should lie down now."

The sick woman grasped her arm with hot fingers. "Have I said anything to set you against Ninian or--or the place?" she asked uneasily.

Olwen was obliged to laugh. "Of course not; though it could not matter even if you had."

"You said, didn't you--you told me you found the Pele fascinating?"

"It has a fascination, certainly."

"So have you," returned Madam most unexpectedly. Her eyes were fixed upon the girl's mirthful face and the pretty curve of her smiling mouth. "I consider you decidedly fascinating. I can't think where Ninian's eyes are."

"Tastes differ, you know," was the amused reply. "As you approve, that is all that matters, isn't it? Perhaps Mr. Guyse will forgive me for being unattractive when he finds I am useful."

Mrs. Guyse lay silent for a while, during which time she was presumably thinking over her indiscretions. At last--

"Wolf won't be coming here for a long time," said she in a decided voice; "so don't build upon seeing him, will you?"

"It's very disappointing, but I'll try to bear it," replied the girl demurely, dissembling her mirth.

After another pause--"I fear I was unwise to show you his picture. Are you susceptible, do you think?"

"I believe not. You see, when one has to earn one's living, one has no time to be fanciful."

"I dare say"--with evident relief. "It was very different with me. I had been so spoilt, my father doted on me. I had everything I wanted; I had but to express a wish and it was gratified. That was what made the contrast, after marriage, so dreadful to me. I had been so flattered that I thought myself very attractive; and I was not. My husband told me so in plain words. He said I expected too much. You are not accustomed to flattery, are you? You would not expect too much?"

Olwen began to be alarmed at her high colour and rambling talk. "I want you to lie down and rest and not talk," said she coaxingly. "I think I will go and ask Sunia to bring your tea."

"Wait!" A thin hand was held up and beckoned. Olwen approached the bed. "Bend down. I want to whisper."

Olwen stooped, a queer access of pity in her heart.

"I have been imprudent. If you repeat what I have said you will get me into trouble; but, all the same, I am going to warn you. Ayah is his spy--Ninian's spy. Be careful, won't you?"

The colour flamed into the girl's face. This was her second warning that day not to trust Sunia. "I'll remember, and please to understand that I _don't talk_," said she, as impressively as she could.

She felt uncomfortable as she took up the Barton catalogue and carried it downstairs to point out to Mr. Guyse the lounge chair which she thought would be suitable.

He was standing upon the hearthrug as she entered the lamp-lit room; and, to her surprise, he met her with a scowl.

What does this portend? she asked herself, as she went to the tray and sat down to pour out his tea. The kettle sang on the hob, there was a fragrance of hot tea-cake, and the table looked tempting with its crystal glasses of preserve and old Jacobean silver. Ignoring his silence, she began to talk. "I have brought the catalogue to show you. How long will it be before we can get what we order, do you know? I am wondering how you manage to collect things sent by rail."

He was sitting, at the side of the table, at right angles to her, and as he leaned forward his sulky face was close to hers.

"I wonder," he said, "if, on the occasion when I came to fetch you from Caryngston, I succeeded in impressing upon you the fact that I am anxious for you to have no dealings with Balmayne?"

Resenting his tone in every fibre of her, Olwen opened her mouth to say, "What concern is it of yours?" but, remembering in time her position in the household, she replied merely, "You impressed upon me the idea that you and he are not on good terms."

"So you thought you would have a nice, confidential talk with him, about me--eh?"

"Oh! What makes you think so?" she asked calmly.

He was ready for this question. "Mrs. Baxter told me what time the doctor arrived. I know what time he went. Sunia told me how long he was in the sick-room."

"Was that all that Sunia told you?" she asked innocently.

He reddened. Olwen summoned all her courage and, leaning back in her chair, she looked steadily into his eyes, which gleamed in a way which made her think absurdly of a panther lashing his tail.

"We had better have this out," she said quietly. "If, as I suppose, Sunia was listening, and if she has repeated to you all that passed between the doctor and me, you must know that nothing was said of which you could reasonably complain. Please understand that I did not come here to take my orders from you, and that I will not be bullied by you. If your mother has anything to complain of in my conduct she will tell me so. I know my place. I wish that you knew yours."

He sat upright, as if she had stung him, and gazed upon her as if he hardly knew how to take this.

"If you were not here," she went on, "Madam and I could get on very comfortably together; but ever since you saw me you have been trying to make things intolerable for me. After the way you have just spoken I shall, of course, leave at my month. But as long as I am here, perhaps you will let me alone."

He made a contemptuous sound. "That's just like a woman--flare up at a little thing like that! You give notice to leave just because I got a bit shirty over you and Balmayne----"

"Why, you made up your mind from the first that I shouldn't stay, didn't you? When you found that I am not pretty and that I won't flirt with you----"

"By Jove! how can you say that? Why, I tried with all my might to be friends, but you wouldn't touch me with the end of a barge pole."

"You knew quite well that you were behaving in a way no girl could stand."

He folded his arms, gazing down at the tablecloth. "I don't know any girls. At least, none like you."

Something in his tone made her feel a little sorry for him, but she hastened to improve the occasion a little farther.

"Why can't you understand that I only want to be let alone? What do you matter to me? From the way you talk, I suppose that Dr. Balmayne knows something to your discredit, and that you are afraid he might tell me. Well, what if he did? It is of no business of mine. It doesn't interest me. As for Madam--when I first came, I thought she disliked me as much as you do, but the last day or two she has seemed glad--pleased--to have me with her. She has begun to--to welcome me, to turn toward me, as if she--l-l-loved me. And now I must leave her, all because you--you----"

She could not finish. She was swallowing sobs, and, to her own vast mortification, was obliged to rise from the table and turn away to the fire so as to hide her quivering face.

She heard him push back his chair and rise too. He took a turn to the end of the room and back. Then he came near to where she stood.

"I'm a perfect brute," he said gruffly. "I say--can't we start all over again? Do let us. I can't think why things have gone so badly. You got up against me somehow. I thought you were so different. I can't explain. If I say that I'm fairly ashamed of myself, and beg your pardon with all my heart, won't you give me another chance?"

"I don't know what you mean," said she, furtively wiping away her tears. "Another chance? I never gave you a chance at all. You don't count. Why should you?"

"That's just what I mean. I want to count. Give me a chance."

She made no reply.

"I never had a sister, or perhaps I shouldn't be such a blundering fool with girls," adventured Nin. "Look here, can't you be great enough to hand me out a free pardon? I never guessed how much I was going to hurt your feelings just now, and if Madam is to lose you just because of my thundering folly---- Ah, well, you guessed quite right; Balmayne does think he knows something to my discredit, and I was anxious you should not hear it from him. I wanted to keep it dark altogether. But I suppose I'd better tell you about it myself."

"But I don't want to know. Will nothing make you see that it doesn't matter a bit to me----"

"You'd have listened to Balmayne----"

"He declined to say anything when he found I didn't know----"

"Ah, then he did mention it?"

"If we are talking of the same thing."

"Lily Martin, of course; the girl who was my mother's companion."

"Oh, yes, I remember. He said that your mother had rather a shattering experience."

"I suppose she had. Yes, it was a shock," he replied slowly. "Look here, dry your eyes and sit down to tea, and I'll tell you afterwards, if you'll promise not to go away at the end of your month. This place is quite jolly in fine weather."

She sat down to table and poured fresh tea. "I have no doubt it is," said she. "You will enjoy showing it to my successor. You should explain to her, however, when offering her the post, that she is to be your companion, and not Madam's."

"Now you're not playing fair. No good to say you forgive me and then stab me in the back."

"I don't think I have forgiven you. At least, I haven't said so."

He looked at her with puzzled eyes. "You try living here ten years, with never a soul to speak to, and see if you don't make an ass of yourself the first time you get the chance," he remarked presently.

She did not answer, but took up the catalogue and made a little talk about the folding chairs depicted in the illustrations.

He gave but a divided attention and ate hardly anything. At last he pushed back his chair with determination. "Now will you please listen?"

She rose with decision. "Once for all, Mr. Guyse, I will _not_ listen. I have already told you that I don't want to hear anything at all about it." As she spoke she was moving as if to go out of the room. He rose, with panther-like swiftness, and stood between her and the door. "You've got to listen," he said.