Part 69 (1/2)
”Who is it that is with your master?”
”n.o.body, ma'am.”
”But I say there is. I can hear him talking.”
”I don't think anybody can be with him,” persisted Joyce. ”And the walls of this house are too well built, ma'am, for sounds from the down stairs rooms to penetrate here.”
”That's all you know about it,” cried Miss Carlyle. ”When talking goes on in that room, there's a certain sound given out which does penetrate here, and which my ears have grown accustomed to. Go and see who it is.
I believe I left my handkerchief on the table; you can bring it up.”
Joyce departed, and Miss Carlyle proceeded to take off her things; her dress first, her silk petticoat next. She had arrived as far as the flannel petticoat when Joyce returned.
”Yes, ma'am, some one is talking with master. I could not go in, for the door was bolted, and master called out that he was busy.”
Food for Miss Carlyle. She, feeling sure that no visitor had come to the house, ran her thoughts rapidly over the members of the household, and came to the conclusion that it must be the governess, Miss Manning, who had dared to closet herself with Mr. Carlyle. This unlucky governess was pretty, and Miss Carlyle had been cautious to keep her and her prettiness very much out of her brother's sight; she knew the attraction he would present to her visions, or to those of any other unprovided-for governess. Oh, yes; it was Miss Manning; she had stolen in; believing she, Miss Carlyle, was safe for the night; but she'd just unearth my lady. And what in the world could possess Archibald--to lock the door!
Looking round for something warm to throw over her shoulders, and catching up an article that looked as much like a green baize table- cover as anything else, and throwing it on, down stalked Miss Carlyle.
And in this trim Mr. Carlyle beheld her when he came out.
The figure presented by Miss Carlyle to her brother's eyes was certainly ridiculous enough. She gave him no time to comment upon it, however, but instantly and curtly asked,--
”Who have you got in that room?”
”It is some one on business,” was his prompt reply. ”Cornelia, you cannot go in.”
She very nearly laughed. ”Not go in?”
”Indeed it is much better that you should not. Pray go back. You will make your cold worse, standing here.
”Now, I want to know whether you are not ashamed of yourself?” she deliberately pursued. ”You! A married man, with children in your house!
I'd rather have believed anything downright wicked of myself, than of you, Archibald.”
Mr. Carlyle stared considerably.
”Come; I'll have her out. And out of this house she tramps to-morrow morning. A couple of audacious ones, to be in there with the door locked, the moment you thought you had got rid of me! Stand aside, I say, Archibald, I will enter.”
Mr. Carlyle never felt more inclined to laugh. And, to Miss Carlyle's exceeding discomposure she, at this juncture, saw the governess emerge from the gray parlor, glance at the hall clock, and retire again.
”Why! She's there,” she uttered. ”I thought she was with you.”
”Miss Manning, locked in with me! Is that the mare's nest, Cornelia? I think your cold must have obscured your reason.”
”Well, I shall go in, all the same. I tell you, Archibald, that I will see who is there.”
”If you persist in going in, you must go. But allow me to warn you that you will find tragedy in that room, not comedy. There is no woman in it, but there is a man; a man who came in through the window, like a hunted stag; a man upon whom a ban is set, who fears the police are upon his track. Can you guess his name?”
It was Miss Carlyle's turn to stare now. She opened her dry lips to speak, but they closed again.
”It is Richard Hare, your kinsman. There's not a roof in the wide world open to him this bitter night.”