Christobel went and stood in front of the picture. It was not the photograph of her mother with which she was familiar, the one her father had put in a little locket long ago when she first went off to school. And it wasn’t the miniature he had given her later on her sixteenth birthday. That had been sweet, but unreal. This old, faded photograph had about it a simple air of reality that went deep into her heart. The faint smile in the shadowy picture recalled the dearest thing that life had ever held for her, and drew her so, that she took the picture and pressed it to her lips again and again, and found a tear upon the glass that she had to wipe off. Ah! This is the mother that she had almost forgotten, yet for whom her hungry young heart had been crying out through the years.
At last she put the picture back in its place and turned away, reverently, as if the room were sacred. Somehow she felt that she would be nearer to her father now because she had caught this glimpse of the place in the house where he truly lived.
Suddenly she wondered if she ought to have come in, and stepping out, closed the door carefully. What did that outer richly furnished library matter, since there was this inner shrine? What mattered the whole house? She could breathe more freely since discovering this plain quiet spot where her father really lived.
She came out of her father’s apartment, went down the hall to her own room, and stood at the window, looking out with unseeing eyes at the roofs and chimneys of the square. A moment later someone tapped at her door.
“There is a lady downstairs who wants to see you, Miss Christobel,” said Marie, handing her a card.
“To see me?” said Christobel wonderingly. “Oh, it must be for Father, I’m sure. I know so few people in the city.”
“You are the lady of the house now,” snapped Marie coldly, critically, as if with a kind of ill-hidden contempt that she did not know it herself without being told.
“Just a child!” said Marie contemptuously a moment later down in the kitchen. “She notices nothing. She couldn’t have locked that door. It wouldn’t occur to her. I must have locked it myself and mislaid the key. But where I could have put it I do not understand. But come, now is the time. Mrs. Romayne is here. She will keep Miss Christobel quite a time with her busybody ways and her flattering talk. Butting in, that is what she is here for! Come on. The butler has gone on an errand for the master.”
With a sinking heart, Christobel looked at the card. Mrs. J. Rivington Romayne. Wasn’t that the name of the woman the servants had been talking about? Romayne? The woman who had called on the telephone? The woman they had said would get her father? She gave a little shiver of dislike and hesitated. Should she go down? Did she have to?
But of course, as no alternative offered, she was forced to go. There was, however, a hostile look in her eyes as she entered the smaller reception room to the right of the hall and stood for an instant between the draperies, looking into the dimness of the rich furnishings of the room.
A soft movement sounded from the dimmest corner, like the rustling of silken garments, and a breath of exquisite violet perfume stirred the air. Then Mrs. Romayne stood before her, pausing just an instant under the light of a tall alabaster floor lamp that drew a mellow flood of amber about her head.
Mrs. Romayne was exquisite. Even Christobel’s hostile eyes could not help seeing that. Lovely dark hair in rich waves close to a shapely head; large, soft, dark blue eyes shining with sympathy; small delicate lips, not too red, smiling just a little in eagerness. Barely an instant she lingered in that flood of soft light and then moved forward and took Christobel into her arms gently, with what seemed like rare tenderness, yet the girl resented it.
“Oh, you precious little girl,” said the older woman as she emerged from the somewhat prolonged kiss that she had pressed upon Christobel’s cheek with a fervor as if she had the nearest right. “I have longed to come to you, to hold you in my arms. To mother you! Of course I could not under the circumstances. But as soon as I knew that she was gone, I felt that now the way would be open for me to get nearer to you.”
Christobel drew back, disturbed, and looked at her. Who was this woman who presumed to be so loving? Why should she feel this way? It seemed all wrong that she should resent her so much, yet she could not help it. She did not know just what to do. She did not want to be rude to one of her father’s friends—if she was her father’s friend.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked coldly, wishing there were more light in the room that she might see her caller clearly. There was something oppressive and almost intoxicating in the dim darkness and the exquisite perfume. She drew a deep breath, looked about for the light switch, and discovering it, turned on a flood of recessed lighting all around the edge of the ceiling that gave a more normal look to the visitor.
“Oh, my dear!” said Mrs. Romayne in a sweet voice. “How lovely you are! Come, let us go over here and sit down together on the couch where we can have a real heart-to-heart talk.”
She slipped her arm around the shrinking girl and drew her over to a deep couch in a far corner where her face would again be in shadow from a tall screen that stood nearby.
Christobel did not want to go with her, did not like that compelling arm about her, but there was something irresistible about the woman, as if beneath the sheath of delicate flesh she was made of iron. Christobel felt suddenly helpless in her grasp, and loathed herself for yielding. Yet the quiet courtesy in which her costly school had reared her somehow forced her to obey. She settled uneasily down on the edge of the couch as far away from her caller as she could get without actual rudeness.
“Now. Tell me about yourself, dear,” murmured the too-sweet voice. “You can trust me absolutely with everything. You can talk as freely as if I were your very own mother, darling child! I know your young heart must just be bursting. Of course, you have your father, but a young girl always needs a woman in whom to confide. I shall be so glad to be that confidante. I have always wanted a daughter. You will find me filled with utmost sympathy. All your lonely years. Just cry on my shoulder if you want to. It will do you good, and I shall so enjoy comforting you. Just tell me everything, little Chrissie!”
Christobel drew herself suddenly sharply away from the soft, manicured, beringed hands that were caressing hers.
“Why, there’s nothing to tell!” she said coldly. “I have no need to cry on anybody’s shoulder.”
“What a brave little girl she is to be for sure!” said the sugared voice, and the soft hand reached out again for the girl’s hand. “You don’t quite trust me, do you? But you needn’t be afraid. I’m your father’s closest friend. I will understand all about everything.”
A sudden constriction came to Christobel’s throat. Was this true? Was this woman of the honeyed words in her father’s full confidence? Well, perhaps it was so. As she looked at the graceful form with its clinging black lace draperies, the delicate hands with the sparkle of jewels, the white throat with a single bright gem hung on a cobweb-like thread of platinum, the patrician tilt of the lovely chin, the bright assured eyes, she could well believe it might be true, and her heart sank.
Was it true then, what the servants had said, and was another woman coming to stand between herself and her beloved father?
Why was it that she hated the thought so? Why couldn’t she yield herself to the love that this woman’s lips were professing? She had yearned for love, yet somehow this love did not ring sincere. Oh, her heart was tired and storm-tossed! She wished she did not have to think anything about this woman. She wished she would go away and leave them to themselves, at least for this one night. She wanted to think of her father in the light of that plain little room upstairs where she had seen her mother’s faded photograph as if it were the dominating feature of the room. She wished she had not had to grow up and decide all these unpleasant questions.
But perhaps she was too hard. Perhaps she was foolish to have paid any attention to servants’ gossip. Perhaps it had influenced her natural judgment more than she realize
d. Surely she must be courteous to this friend of her father’s, whether she was an intimate friend or not.
So she summoned words to her inexperienced lips. She was so used to dealing with nobody but the other girls, or in a disinterested teacher now and then.
“You are very kind,” she managed to say, yet knew that her tone was cold and aloof. “There really isn’t anything to tell you. We have been very much occupied all day, you know. There have been relatives here of course—”
The woman look startled.
“They are not in the house now?” she asked quickly and looked toward her velvet wrap lying on a chair at the other side of the room.
Christobel caught at the thought.
“Well, not just now,” she said guardedly. Was it wrong to let this woman think that perhaps some of them might be coming back? Indeed, she did not know how many more relatives might turn up during the evening. There had been a number at the funeral. “Suckers” Randall had called them under his young, scornful breath.
“You mean—relatives of hers? Of Charm—this is, of your stepmother’s?” asked the visitor alertly, and there was a touch of curiosity, one might call it impertinence, that put Christobel on her guard. She drew herself up a bit haughtily.
“Of Mrs. Kershaw’s, yes,” she said briefly.
The lady’s eyes narrowed speculatively.
“Who were they, dear? Anyone I know?”
“Her parents of course,” said the girl, growing resentful at the questions. “An uncle and several cousins. I really do not know if you know them.”
“Were the Snowden girls here?” went on the prying sweet voice. “Of course I saw them at the funeral. But were they here in the house? Are they staying here?”
Young as she was, Christobel could not help seeing what the woman was trying to find out, and she shut her lips, determined not to give out any more information. But suddenly, before she could think how to give an answer that told nothing, she heard stealthy sounds overhead, or thought she did, and her father’s suggestion that she keep her eyes and ears open came to her. It certainly sounded as if someone, or perhaps more than one, were walking about overhead. And this room was directly under Charmian’s apartment.
She started and sprang to her feet.
“Oh,” she said, “I’ve just remembered something Father told me to do—about the servants—I’d forgotten! And it must be attended to at once. Will you excuse me a moment?” She hurried from the room.
She went cautiously, with swift step, her senses alert. Yes, there certainly were footsteps coming along the upper hall, coming from the direction of Charmian’s room she was sure, as she paused an instant to listen, with one foot on the lower step of the stairs. There seemed to be more than one person!
There was a swift shadow crossing the head of the stairs above the second landing, and then another, making a wide grotesque shadow on the wall at the side of the first landing, as if a woman with her arms full of something were passing. And then came a second, and a third, each hurrying faster than the last, almost pushing one another along.
Christobel, with swift, catlike tread, sprang up the stairs, reaching the top just in time to see the last of the three shadows vanish through the doorway that led into the back hall. She had distinctly seen the last figure and was sure it was Marie. Her arms had been full of garments of all kinds lying across a big cardboard box. Then the leather swing door that arranged for silence swung back, caught in something bright and scarlet like a flame, and stayed open until a hand snatched at and pushed back the hindrance, and the bright thing fell back and lay on the floor while the door swung shut.
Christobel stood still, her hand instinctively going to her heart as if to hush the noise of its beating. She waited a full minute it seemed to her, then she tiptoed softly to the door and picked up the bright flame, hurrying forward to her father’s room with it, trembling so that she scarcely dared to look at what she held.
She went into her father’s room and flashed on the light, holding out the garment. Yes, it was as she had thought, a scarlet dress of exquisite velvet, transparent and supple as a serpent’s empty skin, and bearing on one shoulder a gorgeous jeweled pin. It was light as a feather and slippery like a living thing. When she held it out, Christobel could see her stepmother in it, as she had seen her at Christmastime when an unexpected indulgence had allowed her to come home for part of the holidays. Not that there had been much Christmas about it, or home either, for her father had been busy at the office most of the time, and her stepmother had been going out to parties till all hours. But she had seen her in this red velvet sheath ready for the Christmas party, her white shoulders gleaming with dazzling, almost unearthly beauty against the quivering ripples of the velvet, her great eyes flashing like two dark jewels in the startling penciled and shadowed whiteness of her makeup. And quickly there came a vision of that same proud woman lying dead, the scornful jewels of her eyes closed forever, the long curled lashes lying on a still, white cheek.
Christobel shivered and dropped the velvet thing as if it had been a snake. Dropped it into a chair at the back of the room, out of sight, and went out of the room, shutting the door behind her. It would be safe there until her father came. Oh, if he would come soon! Undoubtedly they had made way with other things, and perhaps it would be too late to trace them when he came. Oh, why did anyone want those things anyway? The things that had been Charmian’s. Her father would not be able to do anything with them. Still—there were those two fur coats. Valuable. Not paid for yet and might be returned. She must do something. Oh, if her father would only come! Yet—there was that woman downstairs. How could she tell her father anything about it with her there? How could he do anything? Her heart resented taking another woman into her family confidence. Somehow she must be rid of her. How could she do it without being actually rude?
As she stepped into the hall, she wondered why the light at the end had been turned out. It had been brightly burning, she was sure, when she went down to meet Mrs. Romayne. She remembered looking up that way and noticing that the front hall shade was up.
Then, down on the floor in front of her stepmother’s door, she saw something gleaming, like little twinkling lights, and stooping, found it was a scarf of gauze with tiny rhinestones set in a pattern about its border, a lovely trifle that reminded one sharply of its lively, selfish owner.
Christobel tried to pick it up but found it was shut in the door, and taking hold of the knob she found that the door was not locked. It was then that she discovered a bunch of keys dangling from the keyhole. They had not locked the door after them! They had left the keys behind! Then they must be intending to come back!
Chapter 3
Christobel folded her hand softly about the jingling keys and held them still for an instant, trying to think quickly what was best to do. Here was she, who had never had anything to do with her father’s house or Charmian’s things, who had been practically pushed out of her father’s house to grow up among strangers, having to take control in a great crisis like this.
She wished she did not have to tremble so. Why did she care what happened? Only she did so want to do just the right thing! Ought she to send for a policeman? Only then it would get in the papers, and Father wouldn’t like that. And after all, what proof had she? Only a series of shadows and a velvet gown and scarf. This bunch of keys? Well.
She drew the door shut and locked it with her hand still folded about those noisy keys and hurried back into her father’s room, where she stuffed the keys quickly down under one of the big leather cushions of the first chair she came to.
The next move was to get downstairs before it was discovered that she had come up and get rid of that unwelcome caller.
And none too soon. She thought she heard the cautious swing of the upper hall door as she reached the first landing, and no fairy could have trodden more lightly. She got herself down to the small reception room as quietly as a thistledown and drifted over to the visitor, with an ingra
tiating smile, even as she kept her ear attentive to the cautious sounds above.
“I wonder, Mrs. Romayne,” she said sweetly as she approached the couch where the lady was awaiting her and taking in all the luxurious fittings of the room with appraising eyes, “if you would be good enough to excuse me for the rest of the evening, and let me see you another time perhaps? You see, I promised my father to look after a matter for him during his absence, and I find it is going to take more attention than I thought.”
“Oh, my dear!” said Mrs. Romayne, springing lightly to her feet and showing great eagerness. “Do let me help you. That is just what I came for. To be of use. What is it? I have nothing whatever on my program for the evening. I had set aside everything else to give this evening to you and your dear father, and I shall be so pleased to take any responsibility. Of course it must be hard for you. Why, you are scarcely more than a child.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Romayne.” Christobel wanted to freeze up, but she forced herself to be gracious. “You are most kind and thoughtful, and I appreciate your sympathy, but this is something an outsider could not possibly do. It is a personal matter—”
“But I am not an outsider, Christobel, dear,” laughed the lady good naturedly. “I am an old friend.”
“Thank you,” said Christobel, keeping her voice steady, although she was quite at her wits’ end and ready to cry in her vexation at this persistent woman, “but this is a matter that not even a personal friend could attend to. I really must ask—”
But the lady interrupted.
“My precious child, do let me do something to help, please, please!”
Christobel, in her desperation, wondered what to do. Then suddenly an idea occurred to her.
“There is one thing,” she said, hesitating, “but—it’s really too much to ask, I’m afraid.”