Chapter 6
There was silence on the part of both the brothers when Welton Keynes made his rather startling announcement concerning Miss Ferriby's charities. That a woman of her type, cynical, shrewd, actuated, as she had herself confessed, by no very much loftier motives than love of excitement and the gambling instinct, should go to all the trouble and fatigue of the séances she held, with no other object than the provision of a large sum of money to be spent in benevolence which she herself mocked at, had seemed strange to Welton, as soon as he knew all about it.
When he had looked further into her accounts, and when he had carefully completed his examination of the letters and papers put into his care, there had remained this grave cause of surprise and suspicion, that while careful note was made of people, and while careful entry was made of the particular charity to which each sum was given, he had so far failed to account for any sums other than these. Not one scrap of paper, not one page of accounts, referred to Miss Ferriby's own gifts from fortune-telling.
Basil looked rather scared. But after a pause he brightened up. "But why should she keep account of her expenditure of her own money?" asked he earnestly. "After all, what she does with it is her own affair, and she is not accountable to anybody. It's only the money entrusted to her by others that she is bound to account for, and that, you say, she does most scrupulously to the last penny."
Welton nodded. "That is true," he said. "I'm absolutely convinced that as a dispenser of the charity of other people, she is most careful and conscientious, entering the minutest particulars, and the smallest sums."
"Then why should you mistrust her about her own money?" asked Basil in a reproachful tone. "It seems to me that if she were not honest, it would be easy enough for such a clever woman to take everything that passed through her hands, and to make up some sort of story to account for what she had done with it. Or, if she couldn't quite do that, she might levy a very handsome toll upon every sum given her, and put it down, as the charities themselves do their pilferings, to expenses."
But the suggestion did not satisfy his brother. "Miss Ferriby's not the sort of woman of whom one can certainly say that she would do this or that," he said gravely. "I think that she is so awfully, diabolically clever, that she might well cover up her own particular form of depredations by being specially scrupulous in other matters. Mind, I don't say it is so, but I say it might be so. She's not only the cleverest woman, but the cleverest person I ever met. I'm afraid of her."
Basil laughed incredulously. That his courageous, spirited, handsome brother should be really afraid of a hump-backed old woman, was too absurd to be anything more than a jest. He could not understand the strange attitude his brother was taking over the whole business. It seemed to him that the post was a delightful one, and that Welton was ridiculously particular to expect more than he had got in the way of comfort, consideration and salary, and to make so much of things which appeared to Basil unimportant.
If Miss Ferriby chose to amuse herself, and to make money for her charities by working on the credulity of a lot of rich people who were prepared to pay handsomely for their amusement, it did not seem to the younger brother such a very great crime. Even if she had perferred to keep the money she made in this way, there might be something to be said for her view of what was justifiable. But since she appeared to be extremely well oft already, and since she spoke of her vogue as a fortune-teller as being temporary only, it seemed to Basil only reasonable to suppose that she was doing it for her pleasure only, and that she saw no necessity for keeping a strict account of the acts of benevolence she performed with the money.
He thought Welton would be mad to give up a situation so pleasant and easy without better cause than he had yet shown for doing so. And down at the bottom of his heart there lingered the hope that Miss Ferriby would adopt the handsome Welton as her son, and leave him all her money! Such things did happen. Why should they not happen to Welton?
But he did not dare to say much about this idea, for his brother was so very curt and decided in rebutting it. Welton, indeed, was clearly in low spirits and uneasy, so to divert him Basil suggested that, as it was a fine night, they should have a walk.
It was not much past ten o'clock, so Welton consented, and putting on their overcoats, the brothers started southwards through Mayfair with the intention of getting into St. James's Park.
As they were passing through one of the smartest streets, where rows of cars, waiting to set down their owners, showed that an entertainment was going on at one or perhaps more of the houses, Welton suddenly stopped short, grasping his brother's arm tightly. He was staring at a gentleman in evening dress who had just got out of one of the cars and was walking up the red cloth which had been laid across the pavement, and up the steps of a mansion which was brightly lighted and crowded with beautifully dressed women and smart-looking men.
"What's the matter?" asked Basil.
But at first Welton seemed unable to answer. He was leaning by this time quite heavily on his brother's shoulder, and still staring fixedly at the man who had got out of the car.
"Good heavens!" cried Welton hoarsely.
The tall man turned sharply, and his eyes met those of Welton. Basil saw at once that the two men recognized each other, for the other man turned away, and quickening his pace ran up the steps as if afraid that Welton would speak to him.
Basil stared into his brother's face and then, when the other man had disappeared into the house, he led his brother quickly away where they could talk, away from the crowd of loafers which had as usual gathered about the house where the reception was going on.
"What's the matter, Welton?" he asked again, beginning to wonder whether there was something wrong with his brother, that he should have developed such a highly fanciful temperament of late.
Welton answered in a hoarse voice, "You saw the man -- the tall, good-looking man going into that house by himself? Well, he's the footman at The Lawns."
But this was more than Basil could listen to with patience. Now he was convinced that Welton, either by finding himself in a new environment or for some other reason, was not quite himself, and was imagining a good deal more than he saw.
"Come, Welton, that's hardly likely, is it?" he said gently.
"It's just as likely as a dozen things that I've seen and heard in the last three days," retorted Welton, who was in a state of great agitation.
Basil remonstrated again, very patiently. "But this is more unlikely, you know; it's impossible. This man was wearing a moustache."
"I know that," said Welton sharply. "And his moustache is put on for this occasion. He is clean-shaved when he is at The Lawns."
Basil could not help smiling. "I think you must have made a mistake," he said. "A moustache makes just enough difference for it to be impossible to tell a man seen hurriedly like that with one for the same man seen without."
Welton made an impatient movement. "You are talking to me tonight," he said sharply, "as if I were a fool. But I know I'm right. I know that the man I've just seen go into that house is the man who has been waiting upon me at The Lawns for the last three days. And more than that, he recognized me at the moment I recognized him."
"Oh, yes, I dare say you did recognize each other," said Basil readily. "All I'm sure of is that though no doubt you've seen the man before, you've mistaken the occasion on which you met him. You will remember more presently."
Welton remained silent after this speech. He was evidently indeed too disturbed to talk much, and all attempts made by his brother to divert his attention and talk upon other subjects failed to rouse him from the state of acute anxiety into which this incident had thrown him.
On his return to his rooms he could not dispossess his mind of the belief that it was Miss Ferriby's tall footman whom he had seen going into the Mayfair house as a guest, and he resolved to find out without delay who was the occupier of the house in question. The post office directory supplied the required information. A Mr. C
. G. Van Velsen was given as the present occupier, and Welton guessed that this was the American millionaire whose wealth had bought his way into the papers, and the heart of English society.
However, this knowledge did not tell him much, as he had never heard the name before. But he made a note of the name and the address in case it should help him in the future to a solution of one of the many mysteries which surrounded The Lawns.
Although it was becoming ever clear to him that there was something mysterious and uncanny about Miss Ferriby and her household and her clients, Welton was now so far under the spell of this strange creature, and so fully awake to the singularity of the household, that he no longer wished to cut off the connection with The Lawns abruptly. He felt that he must learn more about it first, and that he must make quite sure what became of Miss Ferriby's fortune-telling fees, and that he must know more too about the peculiar form her charity sometimes took.
While he knew that during the day her guests were in the highest ranks of society, he had reason to believe that during the evening she sometimes received people who were very near the opposite end of the social ladder. There was that strange visitor who came as a man and went away as a woman, and who, as he had reason to believe, was the murderer, Henry Ward.
Miss Ferriby had almost owned that it was he, and had made no secret of the fact that she, knowing him to be a criminal, had helped him to disguise himself and so to escape. Was such an action excusable on any grounds? And could it be believed that Miss Ferriby, cynical and fond of excitement and not over scrupulous as to the means she took to gratify her tastes, did things like this out of pure Christian charity alone?
Basil, alarmed by the effect which his new employment was already beginning to have upon his brother, now began to suggest that it would be better for him to give up his post at once, thus reversing the position he had up to now held.
Now, however, it was Welton who insisted upon carrying out his agreement with Miss Ferriby, to the extent of remaining the rest of the month with her, to allow her, as she had said, to procure a substitute for him.
On the following morning, on his way to The Lawns, Welton was met at the corner of the road by Mrs. Ashcot and her daughter, and they both looked at him anxiously as if they felt uncertain whether some alarming change might not already have taken place in him.
"I suppose you will say I'm fond of playing the spy," said the elder lady, "when I tell you that I know you stayed to dinner last night at The Lawns."
"Well, yes, I did," he answered, smiling. "But you will be glad to hear that I have given notice to leave, and that I shall only be there a month."
The old lady drew a breath of relief. Then, however, her face clouded again. "And what made you do that?" she asked quickly.
He hesitated. Miss Ferriby had treated him kindly, and he did not want to say anything which reflected upon his employer.
"Mama, it's not fair to ask Mr. Keynes that. You should be satisfied with the fact," Miss Ashcot said.
But Mrs. Ashcot was too much interested to be discreet. "No, my dear, I can't be satisfied," she persisted. "Not until I see him leaving The Lawns for the last time. And even then," she added mysteriously, "I should like you to promise to come here at once, and let us see for ourselves that you're all right."
"Mama," laughed her daughter, "of course Mr. Keynes will be all right. Don't make him uncomfortable."
"That's just what I want to do," retorted Mrs. Ashcot simply. "I don't want you, Mr. Keynes, to feel safe at The Lawns, because I know you're not."
"Why, what do you think will happen to me, Mrs. Ashcot?" said Welton, trying not to smile, in spite of his own secret misgivings.
But the smile offended her, and she only said, "Never mind what I think. You have confessed enough in telling us you are not going to stay with Miss Ferriby. And I can only say that I congratulate you."
Mrs. Ashcot made a sudden dash across the road to post a letter, in spite of her daughter's suggestion that she should do it for her. Barbara Ashcot, finding herself thus alone for a moment with Welton Keynes, said quickly, "There was a very late visitor to The Lawns last night. A car stopped there at two o'clock in the morning."
Welton looked alert and interested. "I suppose you couldn't see who was inside?" he asked.
"Oh, no. But it was the second time the car was at the door of The Lawns last night. The first time was a little before eleven."
"Ah!" said Welton, remembering that it was a little after eleven that he had seen the footman, disguised in a fair moustache, go into the Mayfair house.
Barbara blushed. "You will think us terribly inquisitive," she said. "But it's true, as my mother says, that we've heard and seen such odd things here that we have become unduly curious about what goes on at The Lawns. And Mama is specially interested now," she went on, growing redder than ever in her anxiety to put all the curiosity on to Mama's shoulders, "because she's taken it into her head that you're like one of her own boys. Of course you're not a bit really," she added quickly.
"Indeed, I wish I were. I'm ever so much touched by her interest. And, may I say, yours?" he added softly, looking into her face which, usually so pale, was now flushed with subdued excitement.
"Of course I have to watch when my mother tells me to," she said demurely. "It's not very pleasant to feel that one is always spying, but there's something so odd about the household there, and the very different types of Miss Ferriby's visitors, that one can't live where we do, almost opposite, without getting more curious than is quite proper."
"Have you any idea why the other secretaries went away so quickly? Did you know any of them?" asked Welton.
"Oh no. They didn't look like the sort of persons one would care to know," she said. "One of them looked as if he drank, and another had an evil face, so that we used to call him the convict, while another always looked frightened from morning till night. He used to look up and down the lane when he came out, and make a dash for the street at a breathless pace, as if afraid of being caught."
Welton laughed.
"So when we saw someone quite different, we felt we ought to say something by way of warning, odd though it must have seemed to you to be accosted like that."
"It was most kind of you both. It's not many who would have done so much for a stranger," said Welton warmly.
Barbara smiled a little. "If you thought it odd," she said, "you must remember that we live a very quiet life, so that my mother is always thinking of her absent boys. And anyone who recalls either of them to her is always sure of her sympathy and help, if necessary."
They were chattering like this for the very pleasure of talking to each other. For already drawn together by the mysterious attractions of mutual interest, and by the knowledge that they were both rather lonely in the world, they were watching for a few words together, for a sight of the other's face. Already the pretty pale oval face and the big dark eyes had begun to intrude into Welton's daydreams.
"Might I," he said, hesitating, as she looked round towards her mother, who was coming back to them, "might I, if I have anything to tell you this afternoon, come in for a few minutes when I leave The Lawns?"
"Oh, we shall feel so pleased if you will," said Barbara, brightening, sounding as if she meant it. "Only don't tell Mama anything that will frighten her," she added with a little laugh.
"Trust me. If I have anything alarming to tell, I'll keep it for your ears, Miss Barbara."
They exchanged a swift look of mutual interest and sympathy, and the girl looked away with the red blood rushing into her pale cheeks once more. She looked so pretty, so modest, and withal so gentle, and yet so intelligent, that he was quite sure he had never met a girl who in all respects was so much like his ideal of what a woman should be. Her evident devotion to her mother was enough to satisfy him as to the emotional side of her nature, while the way in which she listened to his account of his adventures at The Lawns, guarded as were his words, showed the intelligence of a mind that took in everythin
g, together with a tact that said little.
His looks betrayed his thoughts of her.
"Well," she answered, when he uttered this promise of confiding in her if anything should alarm him during the day, "you couldn't do better, I'm sure, than tell me anything strange that happens to you. For I can keep a secret, although I am a woman."
"I'm not at all inclined to see the force of the word, although, Miss Barbara," said Welton. "I think women keep their secrets better than men. They are more cautious. I'm quite sure that Miss Ferriby could keep one," he added with decision.
"Our reputation is not that we can't keep our own secrets. They say it's those of other people that we feel bound to betray," said Barbara, smiling. "But I should think Miss Ferriby could keep anybody's -- as long as it suited her purpose to do so," she added with a little asperity.
"Ah," said Welton, "those words are not quite worthy of you, if I may dare to say so."
"How do you mean, not worthy?"
"They showed a little -- may I dare say it? -- a little malice, such as I had not thought you capable of."
The girl blushed. Then she looked up at him steadily. "I only hope," she said earnestly, yet modestly, "that you may never have reason to regret that you did not share my malice," and she held out her hand in farewell.
Welton felt remorseful and ashamed. "Will you forgive me?" he said. "I ought not to have said such a thing. But you must see what a difficult position I'm in. Miss Ferriby is my employer, and she's been very kind to me. She's made a great fuss about my saving her from two men who attacked her in a lane near here, before I knew who she was, and she has put me under obligations by her generous treatment. I want, therefore, to think the best. Wouldn't you feel like that if you were in my place?"
"Of course I would," said Barbara, smiling. "And you are perfectly right. Try to forget a good deal of what we've said and suggested, and remember only enough not to be too confiding."
"I will," he said as they parted, he going on towards The Lawns, and she returning to her mother.