Cynthia Wakeham's Money

  XXIX.

  IN THE POPLAR WALK.

  Two days had passed. Hermione was sitting in the cheerful sitting-roomwith the choicest of flowers about her and the breeze from the openwindow fluttering gayly in her locks. She was weak yet, but there waspromise of life in her slowly brightening eye, and from the language ofthe smile which now and then disturbed the lines of her proud lips,there was hope of happiness in the heart which but two short days beforehad turned from life in despair.

  Yet it was not a perfect hope, or the smiles would have been deeper andmore frequent. She had held a long talk with Frank, but he had nottouched upon a certain vital question, perhaps because he felt she hadnot yet the strength to argue it. He was her lover and anticipatedmarrying her, but he had not said whether he expected her to disobey herfather and leave her home. She felt that he must expect this; she alsofelt that he had the right to do so; but when she thought of yielding tohis wishes, the old horror returned to her, and a suffocating feeling offear, as if it would never be allowed. The dead have such a hold uponus. As the pleasure of living and the ecstasy of love began to makethemselves felt again in her weakened frame, she could not refrain fromasking herself by what right she contemplated taking up the joys oflife, who had not only forfeited them by her attempt at suicide, but whohad been cursed by a father and doomed by his will to perpetualimprisonment. Had he not said, "Let not hatred, let not _love_, lead youto leave these doors"? How then presume to think of it or dream that shecould be happy with such remembrances as hers ever springing up toblight her life? She wished, oh! how she wished, that Frank would notask her to leave her home. Yet she knew this was weakness, and thatsoon, at the next interview, perhaps, she would have to dash his hopesby speaking of her fears. And so Hermione was not perfectly happy.

  Emma, on the contrary, was like a bird loosed from a cage. She sang,yes, sang as she flitted up and down the stairs, and once Hermionestarted and blushed with surprise as her voice in a merry peal oflaughter came from the garden. Such a sound had not been heard in thathouse for a year; such a sound seemed an anomaly there. Yet how sweet itwas, and how it seemed to lift the shadows.

  There was another person who started as this unusual note of merrimentdisturbed the silence of the garden. It was Huckins, who was slowlywalking up and down beneath the poplars. He was waiting for Doris, andthis sound went through him like an arrow.

  "Laughter," he muttered, shaking his trembling hands in menace towardsher. "That is a sound I must crush. It speaks too much of hope, and hopemeans the loss to me of all for which I have schemed for years. Whydidn't that poison work? Why did I let that doctor come? I might havelocked the door against him and left them to hunt for the key. But I wasafraid; that Etheridge is so ready to suspect me."

  He turned and walked away from the house. He dreaded to hear thatsilvery sound again.

  "If she had died, as I had every reason to suspect after such a dose,Emma would have followed her in a day. And then who could have kept meout of my property? Not Etheridge, for all his hatred and suspicion ofme." He shook his hand again in menace and moved farther down the path.

  As his small black figure disappeared up the walk Doris appeared at thekitchen door. She also looked cheerful, yet there was a shade of anxietyin her expression as she glanced up the walk.

  "He says he is going away," she murmured. "The shock of Miss Hermione'sillness was too much for him, poor man! and he does not seem to considerhow lonesome I will be. If only he had asked me to go with him! But thenI could not have left the young ladies; not while they stick to this oldhorror of a house. What is it, Miss Emma?"

  "A four-leaved clover! one, two, _three_ of them," cried her youngmistress from the lawn at the side of the house. "We are in luck! Timesare going to change for us all, I think."

  "The best luck we can have is to quit this house forever," answeredDoris, with a boldness unusual on her lips.

  "Ah," returned Emma, with her spirits a little dashed, "I cannot sayabout that, but we will try and be happy in it."

  "Happy in it!" repeated Doris, but this time to herself. "I can never behappy in it, now I have had my dreams of pleasure abroad." And she leftthe kitchen door and began her slow walk towards the end of the garden.

  Arrived at the place where Huckins waited for her, she stopped.

  "Good afternoon," said she. "Pleasant strolling under these poplars."

  He grunted and shook his head slowly to and fro.

  "Nothing is very pleasant here," said he. "I have stood it as long as Ican. My nieces are good girls, but I have failed to make them seereason, and I must leave it now to these two lovers of theirs to do whatthey can."

  "And do you think they will succeed? That the young ladies will beinfluenced by them to break up their old habits?"

  This was what Huckins did think, and what was driving him to extremity,but he veiled his real feelings very successfully under a doleful shakeof the head.

  "I do not know," said he. "I fear not. The Cavanagh blood is veryobstinate, very obstinate indeed."

  "Do you mean," cried Doris, "that they won't leave the house to bemarried? That they will go on living here in spite of these two younggentlemen who seem to be so fond of them?"

  "I do," said he, with every appearance of truth. "I don't think anythingbut fire will ever drive them out of this house."

  It was quietly said, almost mournfully, but it caused Doris to give asudden start. Looking at him intently, she repeated "Fire?" and seemedto quake at the word, even while she rolled it like a sweet morsel underher tongue.

  He nodded, but did not further press the subject. He had caught her lookfrom the corner of his eye, and did not think it worth while to changehis attitude of innocence.

  "I wish," he insinuated, "there was another marriage which could takeplace."

  "Another marriage?" she simpered.

  "I have too much money for one to spend," said he. "I wish I knew of agood woman to share it."

  Doris, before whose eyes the most dazzling dreams of wealth andconsequence at once flashed, drooped her stout figure and endeavored tolook languishing.

  "If it were not for my duty to the young ladies," sighed she.

  "Yes, yes," said he, "you must never leave them."

  She turned, she twisted, she tortured her hands in her endeavor to keepdown the evidences of her desire and her anxiety.

  "If--if this house should be blown down in a storm or--or a fire shouldconsume it as you say, they would have to go elsewhere, have to marrythese young men, have to be happy in spite of themselves."

  "But what cyclones ever come here?" he asked, with his mockery of asmile. "Or where could a fire spring from in a house guarded by aDoris?"

  She was trembling so she could not answer. "Come out here again at sixo'clock," said she; "they will miss me if I stay too long now. Oh, sir,how I wish I could see those two poor loves happy again!"

  "How I wish you could!" said he, and there was nothing in his tone forher ears but benevolence.

  As Huckins crept from the garden-gate he ran against Frank, who was onhis way to the station.

  "Oh, sir," he exclaimed, cringing, "I am sure I beg your pardon. Goingup to town, eh?"

  "Yes, and I advise you to do the same," quoth the other, turning uponhim sharply. "The Misses Cavanagh are not well enough at present toentertain visitors."

  "You are no doubt right," returned Huckins with his meekest and mosttreacherous aspect. "It is odd now, isn't it, but I was just going tosay that it was time I left them, much as I love the poor dears. Theyseem so happy now, and their prospects are so bright, eh?"

  "I hope so; they have had trouble enough."

  "Um, um, they will go to Flatbush, I suppose, and I--poor old outcastthat I am--may rub my hands in poverty."

  He looked so cringing, and yet so saturnine, that Frank was tempted toturn on his heel and leave him with his innuendoes unanswered. But hisbetter spirit prevailing, he said, after a moment's pregnant silence:

  "Yes; the young la
dies will go to Flatbush, and the extent of thepoverty you endure will depend upon your good behavior. I do not thinkeither of your nieces would wish to see you starve."

  "No, no, poor dears, they are very kind, and the least I can do is toleave them. Old age and misery are not fit companions for youth andhope, are they, Mr. Etheridge?"

  "I have already intimated what I thought about that."

  "So you have, so you have. You are such a lawyer, Mr. Etheridge, such anadmirable lawyer!"

  Frank, disgusted, attempted to walk on, but Huckins followed close afterhim.

  "You do not like me," he said. "You think because I was violent oncethat I envy these sweet girls their rights. But you don't know me, Mr.Etheridge; you don't know my good heart. Since I have seen them I havefelt very willing to give up my claims, they are such nice girls, andwill be so kind to their poor old uncle."

  Frank gave him a look as much as to say he would see about that, but hesaid nothing beyond a short "What train do you take?"

  As Huckins had not thought seriously of taking any, he faltered for amoment and then blurted out:

  "I shall get off at eight. I must say good-by to the young ladies, youknow."

  Frank, who did not recognize this _must_, looked at his watch and said:

  "You have just a half hour to get the train with me; you had better takeit."

  Huckins, a little startled, looked doubtfully at the lawyer andhesitated. He did not wish to arouse his antagonism or to add to hissuspicion; indeed it was necessary to allay both. He therefore, after amoment of silent contemplation of the severe and inscrutable face beforehim, broke into a short wheedling laugh, and saying, "I had no idea mycompany was so agreeable," promised to make what haste he could andcatch the six o'clock train if possible.

  But of course it was not possible. He had his second interview withDoris to hold, and after that was over there were the young ladies tosee and impress with the disinterested state of his feelings. So that itwas eight o'clock before he was ready to leave the town. But he didleave it at that hour, though it must have been with some intention ofreturning, or why did he carry away with him the key of the side-door ofthe old Cavanagh mansion?