Читать книгу A Shadowed Love - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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There are some fine houses in the Thames Valley between Oxford and Windsor, but none of greater beauty than Stanmere. It is not large, but it is pure Tudor, with never so much as a stone or window restored; its grey gables are softened and beautified by the hand of time; the velvet lawns have been rolled and shaven and shaven and rolled for three centuries. But the beauty of the place lies in its grounds.

There are green terraces slipping to a lake which is fed by a strong stream. The lake is dotted with islands and surrounded by woods at the far end, which renders it dark and gloomy. There is a summer-house with steps leading down to the water, and here Lady Stanmere spends a deal of her time in the warm weather.

The great green woods are wonderfully cool and silent; the great dragon flies hover over the still water, covered here and there by sheets of white water-lilies; the paths all around are of grass, and behind them are yews cut into fantastic shapes like a stone cloister turned into living green. Withal the peace and silence is very mournful, as if some tragedy brooded here.

And in sooth there had been trouble enough and to spare at Stanmere. Lady Stanmere had lived to see her husband taken out of the placid lake where the dragon flies were brooding, and laid in what was no better than a suicide's grave; she had lived to see one son an outlaw and the other a nameless wanderer, until she could do no more than marvel at the amount of suffering she could endure and yet retain her reason. And here she was now, white-haired, broken, gentle, yet with some gleams of the once haughty spirit that had sustained her in the dark years of her life.

But this was not all the mystery. Whom the property would go to when Lady Stanmere no longer needed it nobody knew, save, perhaps, Mr. Martlett, the family lawyer, who was never yet known to tell anything to a soul. For all Lady Stanmere knew, both her sons were dead, and they might or might not have left a son behind them. And the mystery was rendered deeper by the fact that the last of the reigning Stanmeres had left his property hopelessly encumbered and had died heavily in debt. It was not an extravagant household, for Lady Stanmere's wants were simple; but the grounds were superb, and a small army of gardeners were required to keep them trim in the beautiful order for which they had always been famous.

Yet, despite debt and difficulty, everything was going on just the same as usual. The orchard houses and the vineries poured out their purple and golden harvest, the green lawns and the luxurious gardens were as trim and riotous as ever, not a single boy was discharged. And from time to time the thin, dried-up little Martlett presented certain papers for Lady Stanmere to sign, and with a cough that defied question, stated that this or that further mortgage had been paid off. A wonderful manager, Martlett, people said. But Martlett was dumb as an oyster.

Lady Stanmere sat in the summer-house overlooking the lake, her long slim hands engaged in some pretty silk meshwork upon which she was constantly engaged. Those long slim hands were never still for long together.

She had been tall and straight once, now she was bent and broken. Yet the dark eyes in the pale face could flash at times, and the old imperious ring came back into the gentle voice. For a long space the hands with their flashing rings went in and out of the silken web. A gorgeous butterfly hovered round the honeysuckle over the porch.

"Ah, my beauty," a deep voice said. "So I've got you now!"

At the sound of that voice the black netting fell a tangled heap into Lady Stanmere's lap. A queer little cry escaped her. There was something like fear in her eyes, and yet not so much fear as agonised expectation. With a great effort she composed herself and walked to the entrance of the summer-house.

"Von Wrangel," she said, firmly, "I'm surprised, I am ashamed of you. Put that net down and come and tell me what you want here."

Greigstein dropped his net instantly, not without a passing look of regret for the great purple butterfly still hovering over the honeysuckle. His manner changed so utterly that his friends would hardly have recognised him. Plainly as he was dressed, there was no suggestion of the suburban schoolmaster about him now. His English had become singularly good and clearly enunciated.

"I am exceedingly sorry, dear Lady Stanmere; I had not the remotest idea that you were here. I came down to see you to-day, though I have been here for years on and off without any attempt to do so. I was trying to think out some way of seeing you without coming up to the house, but the sight of that superb cassiopa—"

"Still the same strange contradiction," Lady Stanmere cried. "Still turned from great ends by the trivialities of life. But you may come in; there is no chance of our being interrupted here. Have you any news for me?"

Greigstein followed into the grateful coolness of the summer-house. All the hardness had died out of his eyes, his manner was gentle, almost subservient.

"I believe you have forgiven me," he said.

"I believe that I have forgiven everybody," Lady Stanmere replied, "even a Hungarian patriot like yourself. My husband ruined himself and died for your wild scheme; my son Stephen is an outcast in fear of his life—if indeed he still lives—for the same cause."

"Stephen was bound to have an outlet for his tremendous energies," Greigstein said, coolly. "If he had not taken up the cause he would have given way to drink and gambling and such like evils, and I never countenanced violence. Remember that I am a disgraced and broken man because I stood between Stephen and the grip of the law."

There was just a flash in the speaker's eyes for a moment, the glance that one might see on the face of a great general in the hour of misfortune. Lady Stanmere laid her hand with a pretty gesture on his arm.

"I did not mean to wound you," she said gently. "And I must not hold you responsible for the wild blood of the Gays. It is only because I am so utterly lonely, because I have none of my own kith and kin to love that I find myself regretting that you ever came to remind me that my mother was a Von Wrangel. You recall our last meeting?"

"'Shall I ever forget it?" Greigstein asked, in a low voice.

"Well, we need not go into that, it is three years ago. My boys I never hoped to see again. But Mary was another matter. You were to find her for me, you were not to come again until you did so. And when I heard your voice just now my heart—"

"I know, I know," Greigstein murmured sympathetically, "that was the promise. Now tell me the story of the girl's disappearance."

"A mystery," Lady Stanmere cried, "like everything connected with this house. She came mysteriously, late at night, with a brief note to the effect that her father's life was in danger and that I was to give her shelter. I can see her now, as she stood in the hall with those beautiful sightless blue eyes turned on me intuitively. She knew nothing, she could tell me nothing except that her father was alive. And I took her to my starved heart; and for two years I was quite happy."

A tear or two stood in Lady Stanmere's eyes. Greigstein lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Then, I understand she disappeared again," he said.

"As mysteriously as she came. She went for a walk in the park, a walk that she had learnt by heart. She never came back again, but an hour or two afterwards a stranger left a card for me, saying Mary had gone, and that as I valued the peace and future of our house I was to do nothing."

"And you consulted old Martlett, of course?"

"I did. His advice to me was to do just as I was told. What could a helpless old woman like myself, strangled in these mysteries, do? But if you know anything—"

"I know something, but not much. Accident has placed a clue in my hands. For reasons which will be obvious to you, I am in humble guise in London at present. My single room is in Pant-street, from which charming locality I go to teach German in a school. Beneath me lodge a charming young couple, by name Stevenson. They are the son and daughter of the late vicar here."

"This is very interesting," Lady Stanmere murmured.

"So it occurred to me. I have made friends with these young people. I have even put money in their way, for they are very poor. Now, tell me, did these Stevensons know your niece by any chance?"

"I don't see how they possibly could," Lady Stanmere said, thoughtfully, "seeing that they left the vicarage some time before Mary first arrived here."

"Which only serves to heighten the mystery and make it more interesting," Greigstein replied. "Now, a few nights ago, young Stevenson had a queer sort of adventure. There can be no doubt that he was in close contact with both your—but we need not go into that."

Greigstein paused in some confusion. There was just a gleam of suspicion and anger in the glance that Lady Stanmere gave him.

"You are concealing something from me," she said.

"Well, I am," Greigstein replied, coolly. "With your gracious permission I propose to go on doing so for the present. Now, young Stevenson told me part of the adventure. He little guessed what a mine of information he had tapped for me. Mixed up in that adventure was a photograph. I saw that photograph with my own eyes. And it was a photography quite recently taken of your niece Mary."

The silken mesh fell from Lady Stanmere's hands. The agitation of those long, slim fingers told a tale of silent suffering. But there was a hope in her eyes now that made the white face beautiful.

"You are certain," she asked. "But you could not make a mistake. Strange that Mary should have made friends with people from our own parish. Then you really have solved the mystery?"

"Not yet. You must have patience. Your niece was no friend of these young people. By a judicious question or two I elicited the fact that the photograph in question had come quite by accident into Dick Stevenson's hands. The boy knows very little, but his sympathies have been enlisted on the side of those whose interest it is to keep the matter secret."

"Then he declined to tell you?"

"Absolutely. For the present we must leave things as they are. Your niece is safe and happy. Later on I may bring her back to you. But you must have patience. Lady Stanmere, you are attached to this place?"

Lady Stanmere looked across the lake to the silence of the green woods beyond. Her eyes filled with tears.

"God knows I am," she said. "It's all that remains to me, my dear old home and the recollection of the early days."

"And yet there is mystery here. Even you dare not inquire whence comes the mysterious prosperity that has built up the future of the family again. And in that strange hidden fortune the disappearance of your niece plays its part. Mind you, I don't know for certain, I can only surmise. Therefore we must proceed slowly. Of course, I could force the truth, but at the same time I might bring about an explosion that would lay Stanmere in ruins."

Lady Stanmere threw up her hands in a helpless gesture.

"As you please," she said. "I am utterly helpless. Only bring Mary back to me, give me something to love and care for. This place is very dear to me, but there are times when I am utterly lonely."

Greigstein kissed the slim fingers once more. A little while later, and he had forgotten everything of his mission and his own stormy past, in the heart-whole pursuit of a saffron-hued butterfly. It was characteristic of the man that he could give himself over, heart and soul, to those gentle pursuits.

The butterfly was captured presently on the terrace before the house. A horrified footman demanded to know if the intruder was aware of the fact that he was trespassing. Greigstein meekly admitted the fact.

"Then you'd better be off, my man," the footman said loftily. "And mind as I don't ketch you 'ere again."

Greigstein went off meekly enough, and filled with a proper awe of the gorgeous footman. Relieved of that inspiring presence he could afford to laugh.

"Not a bad day's work," he said. "She has forgiven me, which is much. And, really, that is a very fine specimen of the 'clouded yellow.'"