Читать книгу One Night's Mystery - May Agnes Fleming - Страница 20

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he dim firelight flickered and fell, one by one the cinders dropped softly through the bars, one by one the slow moments ticked off on the old-fashioned chimney-piece clock Outside, the autumnal wind sighed around the gables, and moaned and whistled through the pines and tamaracs. Broad bars of luminous moonlight stole in through the closed jalousies, and lay broad and bright on the faded carpet. Wiry and long drawn out, Mademoiselle Stephanie's small, treble snore told that a good conscience and a light supper are soporific in their tendency, and that she, at least, was "o'er all the ills of life victorious." And Cyrilla Hendrick lay broad awake, seeing and hearing it all, and thinking of the sudden crash that had toppled down her whole fairy fortune.

Impossible to sleep. She got up softly, wrapped a shawl around her, went to the window, opened one of the shutters, and sat moodily down. In sheets of yellow light, the moon-steeped fields and forest, the Rue St. Dominique wound along like a belt of silver ribbon, no living thing to be seen, no earthly sound to be heard beside the desolate soughing of the October wind. And, sitting there, Cyrilla looked her prospects straight in the face.

To-morrow morning Mademoiselle Stephanie would write a detailed account of her wrong doing to Miss Dormer, giving Mr. Carew's name, as a matter of course. She could picture the rage, the amaze, the fury of the passionate, tyrannical old woman, as she glared over the letter. Other, and even more grievous faults Miss Dormer might condone—this, never. She would be sent for in hot haste—she would be expelled the school—her lip curled scornfully at the thought, for that her bold, resolute spirit cared nothing—and she would return in dire disgrace to Dormer Lodge. And then the scene that would ensue! Miss Dormer glaring upon her with eyes of fire, and tongue like a two-edged sword. "My niece Cyrilla comes of a bad stock!" over and over again the old maid had hissed out her prediction; "and mark my words, my niece Cyrilla will come to no good end!"

The end had come sooner than even Miss Dormer had expected.

Well, the first fury, the first tongue-lashing over, Aunt Dormer would send her back, penniless as she came, to her father. No splendid fortune, hoarded for a quarter of a century, for her; no "rich and respectable" Mr. McKelpin to take her to wife. Back again to the nomadic tribes of Bohemia, to the tents and impoverished dwellers in the realm of vagabondia! As vividly as a painting it all arose before her—her father's dirty, dreary, slipshod lodgings in some dismal back street of Boulogne-sur-Mer. She could see him in tattered dressing-gown, haggard and unshorn, sitting up the night long with kindred spirits over the greasy pack of cards, fleecing some, and being fleeced by others. The rickety furniture, the three stuffy little rooms, the air perfumed with tobacco and brandy and water, herself draggled and unkempt, insulted by insolent love-making, spoken of with coarse and jeering sneers. Oh! she knew it all so well—and her hands clenched, and a suffocating feeling of pain and shame rose in her throat and nearly choked her.

"No," she thought, passionately, "death sooner than that! Oh, what a fool I have been this night! to risk so much to gain so little."

A feeling of hot swift wrath arose within her against Fred Carew.

"My father ruined the life of your aunt. I will never ruin yours." That, or something like it, he had said to her, and now—all unconsciously it is true—the ruin of all her prospects had come, and through him.

"I will never go back to my father," she thought again, this time with sullen resolution. "No fate that can befall me here will be worse than the fate that awaits me with him. America is wide; it will go hard with me if I cannot carve out a destiny for myself."

What should she do? No one knew better than Cyrilla Hendrick the futility of crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done—no repentance could undo it. No use weeping one's eyes red over the inevitable past; much better and wiser to turn one's thoughts to the future. She would be expelled the school; she would be turned out of doors by her aunt, all for a school-girl escapade, indecorous, perhaps, but no heinous crime, surely. Was she to yield to Fate, and meekly submit to the disgrace they would put upon her? Not she! Her chin arose an inch at the thought, sitting there alone—her handsome, resolute lips set themselves in a tight, determined line. She would take her life in her own keeping, away from them all. She would never return to her expatriated father and his disreputable associates. "The world was all before her where to choose,"—what should that choice be? Two alternatives lay before her. She might go to Fred Carew, tell him all, and at the very earliest possible moment after the revelation she knew he would make her his wife. His wife—and she must march with the regiment; both must live on seven-and-sixpence a day, just enough, as Fred now said, to keep him in bouquets and kid gloves. They must live in dingy lodgings, and appeal humbly in all extremity to the Right Hon. the Earl of Dunraith for help. Life would drag on an excessively shabby and out-at-elbows story indeed; and Love, in the natural order of things, would fly out the door as Poverty stalked in at the window. A shudder ran through her. No, no! Freddy had acted badly in getting her into this scrape, but she would not wreak life-long vengeance upon him by making him marry her and bringing him to this deplorable pass.

"Not that he would think it deplorable, poor little dear!" Cyrilla thought, compassionately. "A better fellow than little Fred doesn't breathe, and he would share his last crust with me, and let me henpeck him all his life, and look at me with tears of entreaty in his blue eyes, and be utterly and speechlessly wretched. But I would be a brute to do it. No, I must run away from Fred, and see him no more. If I did, he would force me into marrying him, and that way madness lies!"

It will be seen that Miss Hendrick was a young lady of wisdom beyond her years, and capable of projecting herself into the future. With a sigh, she dismissed the thought of running away with Freddy. It would be very nice—very nice, indeed, to be Fred Carew's wife; to be able to pet him and tyrannize over him alternately all one's life—oh! what fate so desirable? But it was not to be. Then what remained?

In one moment she had answered that question—solved the enigma. She would go on the stage. Next to being a grande dame, a wealthy leader of fashion, it had always been her ambition to be an actress. And Cyrilla thought of the life not as one without knowledge. Theatrical people had formed the staple of her acquaintances—gentlemen with close-cropped heads and purple chins, deep, bass voices and glaring eyes—ladies, slangy as to conversation, loud as to dress, audacious as to manners, and painted as to faces. All the drudgery, all the heart-burnings, all the petty squabbles and jealousies, all the dangers of the life she saw clearly. But her bold spirit quailed not. She had performed repeatedly in private theatricals, she had even the year before coming to Canada "gone on" in one of the Strand houses in the very droll extravaganza of "Aladdin; or, The Wonderful Scamp." No wonder her performance in these mild-drawn pensionnat dialogues was strong meat to milk and water. Yes, Cyrilla decided she would go on the stage. She would leave her aunt's house for New York, and in that great city it would go hard with her if with her handsome face, her fine figure, her clever brain, she could not carve out a bright destiny for herself. Vain, she was not; but she knew to the uttermost iota the market value of her black eyes, her long, waving black hair, her dark, high-bred face, her tall, supple form, her thorough knowledge of French and German, her rich contralto voice. Each one was a stepping-stone to future fame and fortune. And, as she thought it, worn out by watching and her unusual vigil, her head fell forward on the window-sill, and she dropped asleep.

It was six by the little chimney clock when the harsh, dissonant ringing of a bell awoke simultaneously all the inmates of the pensionnat. It aroused Mademoiselle Stephanie among the rest. The morning had broken in true November dreariness, in dashing rain and whistling wind, in bleakness and chill.

With a yawn Mademoiselle Stephanie sat up in bed, shivering and blue, and the first object upon which her sleepy eyes rested was the drooping form of her prisoner by the window, in sleep so deep that even the clanging of the bell had failed to arouse her. She had evidently sat there all night, cried herself to sleep probably, and a pang of pity touched mademoiselle's kindly old French heart. But it would not do to show it. Miss Hendrick had sinned, and Miss Hendrick, by the inevitable laws of nature and grace, must suffer. She dressed herself shiveringly, went over, and laid her hand lightly on the sleeper's shoulder.

"My child," she said, "wake up. You'll get your death of cold sitting here."

Cyrilla lifted her head, looking in the dim gray morning light pallid and wretched, and took in the situation at a glance.

"My death of cold?" she repeated, bitterly. "No such luck, mademoiselle. It is almost a pity I do not; it would be infinitely better for me than what is to come."

She stood up as she spoke, twisting her profuse dishevelled black hair around her head, looking like the Tragic Muse, and fully prepared to do any amount of melodrama for ma'amselle's benefit. Ma'amselle looked at her in distrust and displeasure.

"Do you know what you are saying, Mees Hendrick? It would be better for you to be dead than dismissed this school,—is that what you mean?"

"Not exactly. If nothing worse than being dismissed this school were to befall me," answered Cyrilla, with an inflection of contempt she could not suppress, "I think I could survive it No, ma'amselle, much worse than that will follow."

"I do not understand, Mees Hendrick," says ma'amselle, stiffly.

"It means ruin, then!" cries Cyrilla, her eyes flashing, her tone one that would have been good for three rounds from pit and gallery—"utter, life-long ruin! Listen, ma'amselle, and I will tell you this morning what I would have died sooner than tell last night in the presence of that spy and informer, Miss Jones! Oh, yes! ma'amselle, I will call her so. What does it matter what I say, since I shall be turned ignominiously out in a day or two? Even the murderer can say his say out when he stands on the gallows!"

Ma'amselle stood perfectly transfixed, while Cyrilla, with impassioned eloquence, poured into her ears the story of Miss Dormer's hatred of all who bore the name of Carew. How she had wished her to swear never to see him or speak to him while she lived; how good he had been to her and her father in the days gone by, what a pure brotherly and sisterly affection there was between them, how absolutely ignorant she had been of his coming to Canada, how petrified with astonishment at sight of him, how he had striven to tell her news of her father, how Miss Jones had interfered and prevented it, how in desperation he had implored her to grant him ten minutes' interview in the grounds, and how, in very despair at being unable to meet him in any other way, or even write to him, she had consented. In the torrent of Cyrilla's eloquence mademoiselle was absolutely bewildered and carried away. How was the little simple-minded schoolmistress to estimate the dramatic capabilities of her very clever pupil? For the girl herself it was half acting, half earnest. She felt reckless this morning—equal to either fate. After all, who could tell? The glittering, gas-lit life of the stage, with its music, its plaudits, its flowers, its rows of eager, admiring faces, might be hard to win, but, once won, would it not be infinitely preferable to the deathly dulness of existence dragged out as the wife of the rich and respectable Mr. Donald McKelpin? And if her dark, bold eyes and gypsy face really brought her money and fame, why, then, she might send for Freddy and marry him, and "live happy ever after."

Mademoiselle Stephanie stood listening to Miss Hendrick's vehement outburst with knitted brows and pursed up lips, utterly perplexed and at a loss. A great offence had been done, unparalleled in the annals of the pensionnat, an offence for which immediate expulsion, by every law of right and morality, should be the penalty. But if that expulsion was to ruin this young girl for life, and it was her first offence, why, then, one must hesitate. She had ever been such a credit to them all, and really her story sounded plausible, and—mademoiselle was staggered, divided, between pity and duty—completely at a loss.

"You are quite sure your aunt will deal with you in this severe fashion," she asked, her brows bent. "You are not deceiving me, Miss Hendrick?"

"I am not in the habit of stating falsehoods, mademoiselle," Cyrilla answered, majestically.

"And she will send you in disgrace back to your father?"

"She will try, mademoiselle, but I will not go. No! papa is poor enough without an additional drag upon him. I will never go back to be that drag."

"What, then, will you do?"

"Pardon, mademoiselle! I decline to answer. Once I am expelled this school your right to question me ends."

"But I have not expelled you yet, and I demand an answer, Mees Hendrick," cried mademoiselle, her little brown eyes flashing.

Cyrilla laughed after a reckless fashion.

"I might marry the gentleman I met in the grounds. After compromising me in the way he has done it is the least reparation he could make, and I am sure he would if I asked him." Here catching sight of mademoiselle's face of horror and incredulity, Cyrilla nearly broke down. "But you need not fear; I shall not ask him. I shall go to New York and go on the stage."

Mademoiselle Chateauroy's eyes had been gradually dilating as she listened. At these last awful words a sort of shriek burst from her lips:

"Oh, mon Dieu! hear her! go on the stage!" cried little mademoiselle in piercing accents, and precisely the same tone as though her abandoned pupil had said, 'I will go to perdition!' "Mees Hendrick, do I hear you aright? Did you say the stage?"

"I said the stage, mademoiselle," Cyrilla repeated, imperturbably—"no other life is open to me, and for the stage alone am I qualified. When my aunt turns me from her doors I will go direct to New York—to some theatre there—an obscure one, I fear, it must be at first—and in that great city, in the theatrical profession, make my living. I can dance, I can sing. I have perfect health, my share of good looks, and no end to what our cousins across the border call 'cheek.' I shall succeed—it is only a question of time. And when I am a rich and popular actress, Mademoiselle Stephanie, I shall one day return here and thank you for having turned me out!"

For a moment mademoiselle stood speechless, rooted to the ground by the matchless audacity of this reply, and once more Cyrilla's gravity nearly gave way as she looked in her face. Then, without a word, with horror in her eyes, she hastily walked out of the room, locking the door after her, and stood panting on the other side.

"I must speak to Jeanne," she gasped. "Oh, mon Dieu! who would dream of the evil spirit that possesses that child?"

Breakfast was brought to Miss Hendrick in the solitude of her prison by Mademoiselle Jeanne herself, who also made a fire. Miss Hendrick partook of that meal with the excellent appetite of a hearty school-girl, Mademoiselle Jeanne eyeing her in terror and askance.

How the matter leaked out it seemed impossible to tell, but leak out it did; perhaps Miss Jones's exultaion over her enemy's downfall got the better of her discretion, but as the four and thirty boarders sat down to their matutinal coffee and "pistolets" it was darkly whispered about that some direful fate had befallen Cyrilla Hendrick. In the darkness of the night she had committed some fearful misdemeanor, some "deed without a name," and was under lock and key down in Mademoiselle Stephanie's chamber.

Saturday in the school was a half-holiday. In the forenoon the girls wrote German exercises and looked over Monday's lessons. All morning the shadow of mystery and suspicion hung over the class-room—girls whispered surreptitiously behind big books. What had Cy Hendrick done? What was to be her punishment? Four and thirty young ladies were on the qui vive, some secretly rejoicing, some simply curious, two or three slightly regretful—for Miss Hendrick was by no means popular—and one, one only, really sorry and anxious—Sydney Owenson.

"What on earth can Cy have done?" Sydney thought, perplexedly. "We parted all right last evening, and this morning we wake and find her imprisoned and disgraced for the first time in three years. I wish I understood. Miss Jones looks compendiums—she knows. I'll ask her after class."

Lessons and exercises ended. At twelve the welcome bell rang announcing that studies were over for the week, and the students free to rush out pell-mell and make day hideous with their uproar. Sydney alone lingered, going up to Miss Jones, whose duty it was to remain behind, overlook desks, and put the class-room generally in order.

"Miss Jones," she asked, "what has Cyrilla Hendrick done?"

If Miss Jones had a friend in all the school, that friend was Miss Owenson. Miss Owenson, besides being an heiress, besides dressing better and giving away more presents than any other half-dozen pupils together, was so sweet of temper, so courteous of manner, so kindly of heart, so gentle of tongue, so gracefully and promptly obedient, that she won hearts as by magic. A certain innate nobility of character made her ever ready to take the side of the weaker and the oppressed. Miss Jones owed her deliverance from many a small tyranny to Sydney Owenson's pleading. Now Miss Jones pursed up her lips, and her eyes snapped maliciously.

"Who says Miss Hendrick has done anything?" she asked.

"Oh, nonsense! We all know she has, and that she is in punishment down in Mademoiselle Stephanie's room. 'Toinette says she wasn't in her bed all night. Now, Miss Jones, what is it all about?"

"I regret that it is impossible for me to inform you, Miss Owenson. Any confidence Mademoiselle Stephanie may repose in me I consider inviolable. My lips are sealed."

Sydney shrugged her shoulders and turned away.

"I shall find out for all that. It is very odd, I must say. How could Cy have got into any trouble after going to her room last night?"

She ran down stairs and straight to the chambre à coucher of Mlle. Stephanie. She would find the door locked, no doubt, but at least she could talk through the key-hole. She rapped softly.

"It is I, Cy—Sydney," she whispered; "come to the door and speak to me."

"Come in, Syd," the clear voice of Cyrilla answered. "The door is unlocked. Pull the bobbin and the latch will go up."

Sydney opened the door and entered. At the window Cyrilla sat alone, calmly perusing that exciting work of fiction, Le Brun's Télémaque.

"I thought you were locked in! I thought you were in punishment!" Sydney said, bewildered.

"So I am," Cyrilla answered, laughing; "but I so flustered poor little Mademoiselle Jeanne when she brought me my breakfast by my dreadful talk about being an actress, that she went out 'all of a tremble,' as the old ladies say, and forgot to lock the door. Mlle. Stephanie I haven't seen since she got up this morning. I daresay she has improved the raining hours in composing a letter to Aunt Phil, painting my guilt as blackly as the best black ink will do it. She will have a fit if she finds you here in my company—the whitest of all her lambs side by side with her one black sheep."

"Nonsense, Cy. What on earth have you done?"

"Has it leaked out, then? 'Ill news flies apace.' Has Miss Jones told?"

"Ah, Miss Jones is at the bottom of the mischief. My prophetic soul told me so, she looked so quietly exultant. You didn't try to murder her last night in her sleep I hope, Cyrilla."

"Not exactly. If ever I get a chance I will, though. I owe Miss Jones a long debt of small spites, and if ever I get a chance I'll pay it off. What did I do? Why, I stole out of my room last night at midnight to meet Fred Carew."

"Cyrilla!" Cyrilla laughed.

"My dear Syd, if I had assassinated Miss Jones last night in her vestal slumber you couldn't look more horror-stricken! Is it such an awful crime, then? My moral perceptions must be blunt—for the life of me I can't see the enormity of it. Look here, I'll tell you all about it."

And then Miss Hendrick, with the utmost sang froid, poured into Miss Owenson's ear the tale of last night's misdoing.

"If the man had been any other man on earth than poor Freddy," pursued Miss Hendrick, "the matter wouldn't amount to much after all. Expulsion from school I don't mind a pin's point. I leave at Christmas in any case, and a shrill scolding once a day from Aunt Phil until the day I married her pet Scotchman would be the sole penalty. But now it means ruin. Aunt Phil will turn me out—oh, yes, she will, Syd, as surely as we both sit here. No prospective fortune, no Mr. McKelpin to make me the happiest of women, no leading the society of Montreal, no flirtation with Freddy, nothing but go forth, like Jack in the fairy tales, and seek my fortune. Jack always found his fortune, however, and so shall I."

"But, Cyrilla, good gracious! this is awful. Do you mean to say your aunt will really turn you out?"

"Really, Syd, really—really. And, after all, one can't much blame her, poor old soul. Last night I rather dreaded my fate; to-day I don't seem greatly to mind. After all, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always make my own living."

"As an actress? Never, Cy. If the worst does come, you shall make your home with me, sooner than that. Not a word, Cyrilla, I insist upon it. Oh, darling, think how nice it will be, papa and mamma, and Bertie and you, all in the same house!"

Cyrilla laughed.

"And Bertie wishing me at Jericho every hour of the day. And papa and mamma, pinks of propriety, both looking at me askance, a girl expelled her school and turned out doors by her aunt. Oh, no, Syd; you're the best and dearest of friends, but your scheme won't work. I shall go on the stage, as I say. The dream of my life has ever been to be a popular actress, and the first time you and Bertie visit New York you will come and see me play."

"And Freddy?"

"When I am rich enough I shall marry Freddy. Poor fellow! how sorry he will be when he hears this. It is all the fault of that detestable Mary Jane Jones. If she had not interfered at Mrs. Delamere's, he would have said all he had to say there, and no more about it. It is her hour of triumph now, but if mine ever comes——"

"Enough of this, young ladies!" interrupted the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Stephanie, entering hastily. "I have overheard every word. Mees Owenson, why do I find you here?"

In her hand Mademoiselle Stephanie held a letter addressed in most legible writing to Miss Phillis Dormer, Montreal. It was Cyrilla's sentence of doom. Sydney started up, turning pale and clasping her hands.

"Oh, mademoiselle, pray—pray, don't send that letter. You don't know how her aunt hates Mr. Carew—how implacable she is when offended. You will ruin all Cyrilia's prospects for life. It is her first offence. She has always been so good—you have always been so proud of her. She has been such a credit to the school. And she will never, never, never do so again. Oh, ma'amselle—dear, kind Ma'amselle Stephanie! don't send that letter."

Tears stood big and bright in Sydney's beseeching eyes, as she stood with clasped, pleading hands before the preceptress.

"Hush, Sydney!" Cyrilla interposed, gently; "it is of no use. Ma'amselle has heard all that before."

"I have pleaded for Mees Hendrick," ma'amselle said, looking troubled; "I have begged the good aunt to forgive her this one time."

Cyrilla smiled—serenely reckless.

"You don't know Miss Dormer, ma'amselle. If an angel came down to plead for me, she would not forgive this. Send your letter—what does it signify? I will never give her the chance to turn me out. I will go straight from this school to New York."

"You hear that, ma'amselle?" Sydney cried. "You will drive her to desperation. Do not—do not send that letter! She is sorry—she will never offend again. Oh, ma'amselle! listen to me. I am going away—you always said you liked me. Grant me, then, this parting favor. It is the first—it will be the last I shall ever ask!"

She twined her pearl-white arms about little ma'amselle's saffron neck and kissed her. And wavering, as she had been since morning, ma'amselle's resolution wholly gave way before that caress. She kissed Sydney's sweet, tear-wet face, and then deliberately tore her letter through the middle.

"It shall be as you say, petite. Ah! le bon Dieu has given you so good a heart. For your sake, and if Mees Hendrick will bind herself to repeat the offence no more, her punishment shall end here."

Cyrilla drew a long breath of relief. There had been a hard fight for it, but the day was won.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," she said. "I promise indeed with all my heart. Sydney, I owe this to you. I cannot thank you, but I feel——"

Sydney closed her lips with a jubilant little kiss.

"All right, Cy—never mind how you feel. I knew ma'amselle was too good to do it. And oh! ma'amselle, please make Miss Jones hold her tongue. She hates Cyrilla, and will hurt her if she can."

"I will speak to Mees Jones. You may send her to me at once. Go now, young ladies, and let this be the very last time, Mees Hendrick, I shall ever have to reprimand you."

The girls bowed and departed. Cyrilla broke into a soft laugh.

"What a tragic scene! 'Go, sin no more!' That quicksand is tided over safely, thanks to you, Syd; but I have the strongest internal conviction that one day or other I shall get into some horrible scrape through Fred Carew."