Part 67 (1/2)

'My grandmother told me so,' answered Mary, reddening to the roots of her hair.

To this girl, who was the soul of truth, there was deepest shame in the idea that her kinswoman, the woman whom of all the world she most owed reverence and honour, could be deemed capable of falsehood.

'Do you think my grandmother would tell me an untruth?'

'I do not believe that man is a poor dependent, an old servant's kinsman, sheltered and cared for in this house for charity's sake.

Forgive me, Mary, if I doubt the word of one you love; but there are positions in life in which a man must judge for himself. Would Mr.

Steadman's kinsman be lodged as that old man is lodged; would he talk as that old man talks; and last and greatest perplexity of all, would he possess a treasure of gold and jewels which must be worth many thousands?'

'But you cannot know for certain that those things are valuable; they may be rubbish that this poor old man has sc.r.a.ped together and h.o.a.rded for years, gla.s.s jewels bought at country fairs. Those rouleaux may contain lead or coppers.'

'I do not think so, Mary. The stones had all the brilliancy of valuable gems, and then there were others in the finest filagree settings--goldsmith's work which bore the stamp of an Eastern world.

Take my word for it, that treasure came from India; and it must have been brought to England by Lord Maulevrier. It may have existed all these years without your grandmother's knowledge. That is quite possible; but it seems to me impossible that such wealth should be within the knowledge and the power of a pauper lunatic.'

'But if that unhappy old man is not a relation of Steadman's supported here by my grandmother's benevolence, who can he be, and why is he here?' asked Mary.

'Oh, Molly dear, these are two questions which I cannot answer, and which yet ought to be answered somehow. Since that night I have felt as if there were a dark cloud lowering over this house--a cloud almost as terrible in its menace of danger as the forshadowing of fate in a Greek legend. For your sake, for the honour of your race, for my own self-respect as your husband, I feel that this mystery ought to be solved, and all dark things made light before your grandmother's death.

When she is gone the master-key to the past will be lost.'

'But she will be spared for many years, I hope, spared to sympathise with my happiness, and with Lesbia's.'

My dearest girl, we cannot hope that. The thread of her life is worn very thin. It may snap at any moment. You cannot look seriously in your grandmother's face, and yet delude yourself with the hope that she has years of life before her.'

'It will be very hard to part, just as she has begun to care for me,'

said Mary, with her eyes full of tears.

'All such partings are hard, and your grandmother's life has been so lonely and joyless that the memory of it must always have a touch of pain. One cannot say of her as we can of the happy; she has lived her life--all things have been given to her, and she falls asleep at the close of a long and glorious day. For some reason which I cannot understand, Lady Maulevrier's life has been a prolonged sacrifice.'

'She has always given us to understand that she was fond of Fellside, and that this secluded life suited her,' said Mary, meditatively.

'I cannot help doubting her sincerity on that point. Lady Maulevrier is too clever a woman, and forgive me, dear, if I add too worldly a woman, to be content to live out of the world. The bird must have chafed its breast against the bars of the cage many and many a time when you thought that all was peace. Be sure, Mary, that your grandmother had a powerful motive for spending all her days in this place, and I can but think that the old man we saw the other night had some part in that motive. Do you remember telling me of her ladys.h.i.+p's vehement anger when she heard you had made the acquaintance of her pensioner?'

'Yes, she was very angry,' Mary answered, with a troubled look. 'I never saw her so angry--she was almost beside herself--said the harshest things to me--talked as if I had done some dreadful mischief.'

'Would she have been so moved, do you think, unless there was some fatal secret involved in that man's presence here?'

'I hardly know what to think. Tell me everything. What is it that you fear?--what is it that you suspect?'

'To tell you my fears and suspicions is to tell you a family secret that has been kept from you out of kindness all the years of your life--and I hardly think I could bring myself to that if I did not know what the world is, and how many good-natured friends Lady Hartfield will meet in society, by-and-by, ready to tell her, by hints and inuendoes, that her grandfather, the Governor of Madras, came back to England under a cloud of disgrace.'

'My poor grandfather! How dreadful!' exclaimed Mary, pale with pity and shame. 'Did he deserve his disgrace, poor unhappy creature--or was he the victim of false accusation?'

'I can hardly tell you that, Mary, any more than I can tell whether Warren Hastings deserved the abuse that was wreaked upon him at one time, or the acquittal that gave the lie to his slanderers in after years. The events occurred forty years ago--the story was only half known then, and like all such stories formed the basis for every kind of exaggeration and perversion.'

'Does Maulevrier know?' faltered Mary.