The Master of the Priory (11 page)

Susan looked wise. “I gathered as much. Miss Martin stands in Miss Lorrimer's way with Sir Oswald. Of course she wants to marry him herself.”

“Yes, that is her point of view,” Marlowe assented. “But what we mean to find out is whether this Miss Martin isn't somebody who has been wanted by the police for over a year. If she is—why, there will be a big reward for the ones that find her. As for getting rid of her from the Priory, that is an easy matter, and we could do it to-morrow as easy as that,” snapping his fingers. “But it doesn't suit our purpose. You must temporize with Miss Lorrimer, Susan, temporize—that is the word.”

Susan's rosy face looked thoughtful, she wrinkled up her brows and pursed up her lips until a certain comical resemblance to her brother made itself apparent.

“Miss Lorrimer will not be a patient person to deal with, I can see that. But it ought not to take me long to find out what you want. Still, you remember that your letter wasn't very definite. You merely told me to go to the Priory and apply for the post of schoolroom maid, and that Miss Lorrimer would be my reference. Oh, yes, and that I was wanted to watch the governess. All the rest of the explanation I have had comes from Miss Lorrimer, and the chief ground she gave me to work on was that she was sure the governess dyed her hair. There is nothing very extraordinary in that.”

The ex-constable's eyes looked cunning. “Ah! And yet there is more turns on that than Miss Lorrimer knows, or you think, Susy. For if she is the woman we want she is not tall and dark, but tall and fair, leastways with hair that some folks call auburn and some golden.”

“Why, Jim!” Susy's eyes were growing rounder, the rosy colour in her cheeks deepened, her breath quickened. “Tall and auburn-haired,” she repeated. “Jim, you don't never think that it is—”

“Sh! Don't say it,” her brother interrupted her. “There are things that are best left unsaid, even when we are alone like this. You are a sharp one, Susy! I knew you would tumble to it, though I didn't think it would be as soon as this.”

Susy had not recovered from her astonishment.

“Well, to think of it being that,” she ejaculated. “The thing I have always wanted to be in. You may depend upon me doing my very best for that, Jim.”

“I knew I could,” her brother responded with a gratified look. “Well, now, you see what you have to do. You just find out if she is—this woman; and then we can manage Miss Lorrimer's business as well as our own. Search her boxes. You have your keys. There must be proof of identification somewhere.”

“Must be,” Susan nodded. “As for the hair, you leave that to me. I know a trick that will manage that. But there is one thing that puzzles me, if she is the person you are looking for, how did she get in as governess at the Priory?

“Ay! There is wheels within wheels. And that's one of the many nuts we have got to crack.” her brother observed enigmatically. “Miss Martin was recommended to Lady Davenant by a great friend of hers, a Mrs. Sunningdale.”

“Then I don't see how—” Susan said in a puzzled tone.

“That recommendation didn't do her much good, however,” her brother pursued imperturbably. “Since a fortnight before this—lady—arrived at the Priory, the Miss Elizabeth Martin who was Mrs. Sunningdale's governess died of blood poisoning at a hospital in Camden Town.”

B
ARBARA
sat in her own room writing a letter. To speak more accurately, she had apparently written a great many letters, and consigned them all in turn to the same receptacle—the waste-paper-basket. She took up a new sheet of paper and began again.

“My dear Frank.”

Then she paused once more. How was she to say it? In what words should she tell Frank Carlyn that she could never be his wife? For Barbara's mind was made up at last. Frank should be free, it might be that he owed something to that other one, it might be that he had only proposed to her—Barbara—out of pique. At any rate she would not share a divided affection, and her proud, little head went up at the thought.

She turned back to her paper. After all, the shortest statement of fact would be sufficient—she would couch it in the baldest possible terms. Frank would not criticize it overmuch. Probably he would be glad to get his freedom, she said to herself bitterly.

“Don't you think we have made a mistake,” she wrote. “We were friends, such good friends, but to think that we could be anything more was, as I say, a mistake. Therefore, Frank, I want you to set me free from our engagement, and remain my friend still.” She hesitated a moment, how was she to end it? Then she wrote “Barbara,” as steadily as ever, folded the paper, tucked it into its envelope and addressed it to “Frank Carlyn Esq., Carlyn Hall,” as quickly as possible lest she should change her mind and this latest note should share the fate of its predecessors.

Then she sat back in her chair and tears gathered in her hazel eyes, as she thought of the two to whom she knew this decision of hers would mean the bitterest disappointment—her father and old Mrs. Carlyn. They, like their children, had been firm friends for more years than they cared to count, and Barbara knew that her marriage with Frank had been very dear to both their hearts. Still she told herself that what she had done was unavoidable—had been unavoidable from the first—if only she had had the courage to own it. For Frank she could see no way out of the tangle, but, if he did not know his own mind, it was plainly her duty to make the decision for him.

Nevertheless life looked a very dreary thing to Barbara, and the tears coursed down her cheeks as she contemplated it.

They were still wet when there was a knock at the door and Maisie's voice called reproachfully.

“I do believe you have forgotten your promise again, Barbara. You said you would come to tea this afternoon, and we have been waiting for you, and at last Miss Martin said I might come and fetch you.”

Barbara hastily removed the traces of her tears, and opened the door.

“I didn't know it was so late, Maisie dear,” she said apologetically. “But I hadn't forgotten. I'm so glad you came for me, dear.”

Maisie caught her hand.

“Come on, then. But you look as if you had a headache”—eyeing her critically—“and Miss Martin has had one all day, so I am afraid it will not be a very lively tea-party after all.”

Elizabeth was standing behind the tea-tray as Maisie threw open the schoolroom door and announced Miss Barbara Burford, imitating the butler's best style. It was evident that preparations had been made for a visitor, there was a choice assortment of cakes and three kinds of jam.

“Now Maisie will be happy,” Miss Martin said with a smile. “It is very good of you to spare us the time, Miss Burford.”

“Not at all, I am sure I shall enjoy it,” Barbara responded politely, but her tone was cold in spite of her best efforts.

“This is where you are to sit,” Maisie went on, pulling her to the side of the table. “And mind you say ‘What a comfortable chair!' Our visitors always do. I am going to sit at the bottom of the table opposite Miss Martin. She is mistress and I am master, like Daddy. That is his place. What a feast they will have to give us when he can see again, won't they, Miss Martin?”

The governess smiled a little as she poured out the tea.

“I expect you will not let them forget that, Maisie.”

“No, I shall not!” the child nodded. “Because I shall be so glad, so very glad, when my dear Daddy can see again. I wish every one could see like you and me, Barbara, and didn't have to wear glasses and things. I expect Miss Martin does too, don't you, Miss Martin? Because she has such pretty eyes really, and she looks so nice without her glasses.” Barbara did not look at the woman sitting at the top of the table, she gazed straight before her through the open window, where already the long strands of Virginia creeper were turning to their autumn glories of crimson and golden brown.

“I expect most people look better without glasses,” she said in an uninterested tone. “But, Maisie, haven't you been taught not to make personal remarks?”

“I don't think people mind if you say they look nice,” Maisie urged shrewdly. “It is if you say they don't that they are cross. Now Miss Martin—”

“Has heard quite enough about herself,” interrupted the subject of Maisie's comments truthfully. “Come Maisie, can't you find something more interesting to tell Miss Burford? Your cat—”

“Oh, yes. I thought I had something to tell you, Barbara; my cat has four kittens, two tabby, one black and one tortoise-shell. Isn't it extraordinary that they should be so varied?”

Miss Martin and Barbara exchanged a smile, as Maisie proceeded to recount the excellences of her pets. But by and by Barbara's attention wandered from the kitten's beauties to her own troubles. Her eyes strayed mechanically to the woman at the top of the table, and rested for a moment on the dark hair. Then her gaze was arrested, and she looked again in some surprise. Surely the black hair was not so black as it had been. Was it possible that she was making a mistake, or was it not perceptibly lighter in hue?

As if conscious of her scrutiny the governess flushed uncomfortably, and Barbara dropped her eyes.

“Yes, Maisie and I must certainly pay the mamma pussy a visit after tea,” she said gently.

Just then a maid entered with a fresh relay of tea and hot scones. Barbara glanced at her a little curiously.

“Surely that is a new face.”

“Yes,” Miss Martin assented. “Susan has only been here three days. Eliza, our old maid, had to keep house for her father because her mother died. We were very sorry to lose her, but we think we shall like Susan just as well in time.”

“I don't,” Maisie said decidedly. “Susan pulls my hair when she is brushing it out at night. Eliza never did.”

Miss Martin hushed her into silence just as the maid entered again.

“This letter came for you by the afternoon post, miss,” she said to Miss Martin. “Hollins has been into Castor and brought it back with him.”

Barbara looked up with interest. Afternoon post was something of a novelty at the Priory, as the letters had to be specially fetched from Castor.

“Are there any for me?” she inquired.

“I don't think so, miss,” the maid said primly. “But of course I look after only the schoolroom letters.”

Barbara was just about to speak again when she caught sight of the envelope as it lay on the salver that Susan was presenting to Miss Martin.

She could not mistake that bold, black writing—somewhat scrawly. The letter was written by her lover, Frank Carlyn. Involuntarily she glanced from it to the governess. Miss Martin's face was a fiery red, her hand trembled perceptibly as she slipped the letter into her pocket. Some of the glow seemed to spread itself to Barbara's face. She was conscious of a strong thrill of satisfaction that her letter of dismissal to Frank Carlyn had been already written, before she recognized that tell-tale handwriting.

The next moment the door was opened again and Sybil Lorrimer looked in.

“Ah, they told me you were here, Barbara. The Turners have come in and the Rectory children and they want to play games. You are all to come down—you too, please, Miss Martin. We want everybody to play.”

“Oh, that will be jolly,” Maisie said as she jumped up with all the only child's zest at the prospect of companionship.

She danced off, pulling Sybil with her, Barbara and Miss Martin following more slowly.

The latter's flush had faded now. She looked white and jaded, a little sad too. In the drawing-room they found a merry party assembled engaged in the intellectual occupation of drawing a pig blind-folded, and putting their initials beside their productions.

Maisie and Sybil were absorbed, Barbara went over to Lady Davenant, and the governess quietly sat down in a distant corner hoping to avoid notice.

Presently she became aware that the game had changed, they were playing something with pencil and paper, when somebody produced an album and requested everybody to write his or her favourite verse in it. Elizabeth was wondering whether she might slip away if Lady Davenant would give her permission, when that lady beckoned to her.

“Come, my dear, you must join in this,” she said kindly. “Do you know I did not see that you were in the room until Sybil drew my attention to you just now.”

“I was about to ask whether I might go away,” hazarded the governess doubtfully.

Lady Davenant shook her head. “Oh, no, my dear. You shut yourself up far too much as it is. Now this is really a funny game. You each have a sheet of paper and you damp your thumb on this blue pad and then print it on the paper so—do you see? And put your initials on it, and pass it on to the person on your right and she puts heads and legs to it and makes it into a funny likeness of yourself. We played it last night with Maisie, Sybil and Barbara, and I quite enjoyed it.”

Miss Martin looked doubtfully at the piece of paper handed to her.

“Oh, I don't think—”

But Lady Davenant pointed to a seat near Maisie. “Nonsense, my dear, a bit of fun will do you good.” The governess had no choice but to obey, though she was longing to get away to read her letter. Like Barbara she had recognized the writing and her amazement had far surpassed the other girl's. She could not imagine what Frank Carlyn could be writing to her about, and her mind was a prey to all sorts of imaginings and surmises.

“Now, Miss Martin,” Sybil thrust a pencil and pad into her hand. “Put your right thumb on this, then press it upon the paper—so—initial it, and pass it on.” She seated herself on the other side of Elizabeth. “Now is everybody ready? Pass!”

There was some laughter as she was obeyed, and she caught Elizabeth's paper and hurried across to the Turners.

“That is wrong, you must all pass to the right.” No one saw her thrust the piece of paper she held in her hand into her little satchel. She came back to her place in a minute and held out her hand to the governess. “Your paper, please, Miss Martin.”