The Master of the Priory (7 page)

This was a very different thing, this craving for the voice and hands of the woman he had never seen. He told himself that the blindness was at fault over this, too, and to some extent he was right. Had he been living his usual active, outdoor life, Elizabeth Martin might have remained his child's governess to him and nothing more. But, as it was, he caught himself longing for her step in the passage, like the veriest love-sick boy. At first he had not quite realized what it meant, but the hour for deceiving himself was over; to-day for the first time he was asking himself what was to be the end of it all.

He had always made up his mind that if he recovered his sight he would marry again; he wanted a mistress for his house, a son, an heir to his title and estates. But he had always pictured himself looking round among the marriageable ladies of his acquaintance and choosing a wife with as much thought and deliberation as he gave to all the weightier things of life. Falling suddenly in love had had no place in his calculations.

He had not arrived at any satisfactory conclusion when there was a perfunctory tap at the door, and Sybil Lorrimer entered hurriedly.

“Aunt Laura”—she had expressed a wish to call Lady Davenant by this name lately—“has had a letter from Barbara. She is staying with the Turners at Ipsford, with her fiancé, and she is going to bring him over for inspection one of these fine days.”

“I am glad of that,” Sir Oswald said heartily. “I shall be delighted to renew my acquaintance with Barbara. She is a good girl and deserves one of the best.”

“Certainly she does,” Sybil acquiesced, but there was not much warmth in her tone.

Her blue eyes were watching Sir Oswald very narrowly. She saw that he was restless, listening, and her face darkened. She was looking her best in her new mourning, not that that mattered to Sir Oswald, as she said to herself gloomily. But its dead black enhanced the fairness of her skin, the gold of her hair, the blue of her eyes. There was a becoming flush on her cheeks now. She went round to the writing-table.

“Any letters I can write, Oswald? I see Miss Martin has been busy already.” A faint sneer was in her voice. “What a paragon that woman is!”

“Miss Martin is most kind and valuable,” Sir Oswald said stiffly.

There was an accent of defence, of possession almost in his tone that made Sybil feel as if another nail had been driven into the coffin that held her dead hopes. Instinct told her that it would be wise to be silent, but the desire to implant a sting was too strong for her.

“I am sure she is,” she assented. “Nevertheless, I wish you could see her, Oswald, I wish your eyes were open, my dear cousin,” she ended with a stifled sob.

Oswald felt supremely uncomfortable. Little as he cared for Sybil Lorrimer, she had been kind to him in the early days of his blindness. He had no wish to appear ungrateful. Nevertheless the slighting tone in which she habitually spoke of Elizabeth Martin grated upon him now, as always.

“I certainly wish I could see Miss Martin or anyone,” he said, after a moment's pause. “But, Sybil—I had not meant to mention it to you or anyone yet, but I think I must make you an exception—I went over to Saltowe last week and paid Dr. Maitland a visit.”

“Yes?” questioned Sybil eagerly.

“He says that I have made wonderful progress in the past two months; he wants to take me up to Town to see Sir William Chandler next week, then, if he is satisfied, a slight operation would have to be performed. I should have to go into a nursing home for a few days, and then, Maitland says, it would be a practical certainty that I should see all right again.”

“Oh, how glad I am for your sake!” Sybil exclaimed. She took his hand and held it a minute between her soft palms. “This is the best news in the world.”

“Thank you very much,” Sir Oswald said, trying to speak unconstrainedly, as, after giving her hand a cousinly pressure, he contrived to free his own.

Sybil was busy with speculations as to how this intelligence would affect her. She did not doubt that it would effectually put an end to Miss Martin's rivalry. No man with the use of his eyes could hesitate between her and the dowdy-looking governess, she agreed. Besides, the passing of Sir Oswald's blindness would necessarily imply the close of his association with Miss Martin. She would be relegated to her proper place, Sybil said to herself viciously. Still, there remained the society round, into which an eligible
parti
such as Sir Oswald Davenant would be eagerly welcomed. Sybil decided that it behoved her to lose none of the time remaining.

“Won't you come out for a walk this lovely morning?” she said. “Do, Oswald. It would do you good.”

He hesitated.

“Well, Miss Martin and Maisie have gone down to Dr. Williams with a message. I promised to walk as far as the lodge to meet them. If you will be my escort instead of Perkins, I shall be most grateful.”

Sybil's brows were drawn together. She bit her underlip. This was not at all what she had meant, but she told herself she could not afford to refuse.

“Of course I shall be delighted,” she returned. “I won't be a moment putting on my hat, Oswald.”

She was back almost as soon as she had promised, and they set off down the drive, Sybil exerting herself to keep up the inconsequent chatter which she fancied amused Sir Oswald. His attention wandered considerably, and she received some vague replies for which, perhaps unjustly, she blamed the governess, and which had the effect of renewing her wrath against that luckless individual.

They had nearly reached the lodge gate when they caught sight of the two coming towards them. Warm though the day was, Miss Martin still wore her thick veil and her horn-rimmed glasses.

Maisie greeted the new-comers joyfully and at once attached herself to her father. Sir Oswald dropped Sybil's arm.

“I think my daughter will be my guide,” he said playfully.

Sybil had to acquiesce with a smile, but she was by no means rendered more amiable. She glanced at the governess, who was walking silently at Maisie's side.

“How do you contrive to bear that thick veil this weather, Miss Martin! I should simply faint if I tried to walk about in one.”

The attack was unexpected. The governess flushed hotly.

“I am used to it. I do not find it too hot,” she hesitated. Then her voice steadied itself. “I first took to it because I have very bad neuralgia in my temples, and when one has accustomed oneself to anything of this kind it is very difficult to leave it off.”

“So I should imagine,” said Sybil disagreeably.

They walked on a few steps, then Elizabeth turned to Sir Oswald.

“I wonder whether I might leave Maisie with you for a few minutes, Sir Oswald? I have a message from Dr. Williams for Lady Davenant and I should like to deliver it as soon as possible.”

“By all means,” Sir Oswald assented courteously. “We can't wander very far, Miss Martin. You will find us somewhere about here when you come back.”

“Thank you very much,” the governess responded. She walked on briskly, her tall, slight figure looking brisk and alert as it was outlined against the grey old trunks of the oaks in the drive.

“Miss Martin did not like what you said about her veil,” Maisie said shrewdly. “Did you want to, make her cross, Sybil?”

It was Sybil's turn to flush now. “No, of course I didn't,” she said irritably. “But I can't think of why she wears the thing. It's just as though she were afraid of her face being seen.”

“Really, Sybil—” Sir Oswald was beginning, a note of anger in his voice that certainly Sybil had never heard before.

He was interrupted. There was a sound of a car in the drive behind them. Maisie sprang back with a cry of welcome.

“Oh, Barbara! Barbara dear! Daddy, it is Barbara, come to see us at last.”

Meanwhile Elizabeth, walking quickly, had gained the house. She delivered her message to Lady Davenant, and then went to her own room. Never the most Job-like of individuals, Sybil Lorrimer's remarks, coming after a morning of small irritations, had had the effect of raising her temper to boiling point. Her cheeks were hot, her eyes were flashing; it was the old Elizabeth who looked back at her out of the glass. She waited a minute or two to control herself, then, as she readjusted her hat she said half-aloud, “Oh, why can't she let me alone? If she knew how little I want to interfere with her plans—that I only want to be left in peace.”

As she went downstairs she heard voices and recognized that there were visitors with Sir Oswald. Of course Maisie would be there too. She was sure of that, and she hesitated, frowning a little. Of all things she hated meeting strangers, yet Sir Oswald might expect her to look after the child.

As she stood there a voice said quickly, “No, don't you bother, Davenant, old man. I will find it myself. First floor, second room on left, you said, didn't you?”

Commonplace words enough, yet the very sound of them was enough to drive the blood from Elizabeth's cheeks, to make her catch at the balustrade for support as though her very limbs were paralysed. She cast one horrified glance around, then she turned quickly, her one thought for flight, she must at all hazards get away and hide herself from the gaze of the man below.

Her very haste brought about the catastrophe she was most anxious to avoid. The long end of her scarf caught in the carved edge of the balustrade. She tugged at it; the man, leaping upstairs two at a time behind her, paused, seeing she was in difficulties, and moved to help her. As he bent forward she gave one desperate wrench, there was a tearing sound, and she was free.

“Oh, I wish you had let me help you,” the man said regretfully. “I am sure I would have done it without that—”

He stopped suddenly, the words on his lips dying away in horrified amazement.

For as Elizabeth bent forward her glasses had slipped down. He had looked right into her eyes.

“You!” he breathed, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “You! What are you doing here?”

The governess thrust back her glasses, her breath coming in long painful gasps.

“I am Maisie's governess. Let me go, Mr. Carlyn.”

Frank Carlyn fell back a step. “You are Maisie's governess! Good heavens!”

But the governess was hurrying away from him upstairs. Below in the hall Sir Oswald was waiting. Sybil Lorrimer and Barbara Burford stood in the doorway talking to Maisie. He sprang after that tall, dark figure already gaining the shelter of the corridor.

“This won't do,” he said eagerly. “Don't you know that I have been searching everywhere for you?”

“I know that you will drive me from my poor little refuge,” Elizabeth answered him bitterly. “Listen, Sir Oswald is calling you. Indeed I cannot talk to you now.”

“Another time, then,” Frank Carlyn pleaded. “We are dining here to-morrow. Will you be in the garden by the fountain afterwards?”

“If—if I can.” Elizabeth caught the echo of Sybil Lorrimer's voice coming upstairs with Barbara. She burst away desperately. “But go—go now. Do you want to ruin me?” she gasped.

T
HE MOON
was shining brightly—too brightly, Elizabeth Martin thought, shivering as she stood just inside the open library window. Dinner was practically over, she had heard Lady Davenant and her guests go into the drawing-room, but she could catch the sound of voices, the odour of tobacco smoke from the dining-room. She knew, however, that Sir Oswald never sat long over the wine, it was time she made her way to the summerhouse near the fountain if she meant to keep her appointment with Frank Carlyn.

She let herself out quietly and stole across the lawn, taking care to keep within the shadow of the trees. Opposite the house there was the wall overlooking the Dutch garden, with a flight of steps leading down. Elizabeth glanced round fearfully as she hurried on, and started nervously as some nocturnal bird rustled among the trees. She ran across the garden. In the moonlight it was possible to see the softened radiance of the flowers gleaming like jewels in their quaint, stiff beds. At the farther side stood the summer-house; it was a favourite resort with the Davenants and their guests, combining as it did with a view of the Priory a glimpse of the distant Welsh hills.

Elizabeth drew a deep sigh of relief as she reached it, then she loosened the lace shawl in which she had shrouded her head and shoulders. As usual, she wore her smoke-coloured spectacles, and her hair was drawn low over her forehead, but even in the moonlight it was easy to see that her face was white, and that she was trembling all over.

She had not long to wait. Very soon she saw a dark form strolling across the lawn, and in another moment Frank Carlyn stood in the doorway.

Elizabeth moved forward.

“Well, I am here,” she said quietly.

Carlyn started. “I ought to have been here first, but I couldn't get away before,” he said apologetically, “I hope you have not been waiting long.”

The words were commonplace enough, but the man's face was tense and strained, his hands were clenched nervously.

“Oh, what does that matter?” Elizabeth broke in impatiently. “The question is what do you want from me? Why did you bring me here at all? That is all that matters now.”

“All that matters,” Carlyn echoed hoarsely. “It seems to me that everything matters. Can't you see that something must be done—that things can't go on like this?”

Elizabeth put up her hands and threw back her shawl with a quick, impatient gesture as if it were stifling her. Then she moved a step nearer.

“What does that mean exactly? What things can't go one like this?”

Carlyn looked at her for a moment, his eyes resting on the sleek dark head, then his face hardened.

“You cannot stay here as Maisie's governess,” he said abruptly.

Elizabeth did not move, not a muscle in her face stirred.

“Why not? Am I not in every way satisfactory? Has not Lady Davenant told you what a jewel of a governess she has secured? One with the highest references from her friend, Mrs. Sunningdale?” There was an indescribable bitterness in her tone.