she said, her long lashes sweeping her cheeks; and then added, as an afterthought, “Raymond.”
And as she disappeared, I wondered whether she had spoken my name from pure coquetry, or—what?
Chapter V.
The Crime in the Study
There are few things, to my mind, more delightful than being wakened soon after daybreak, on a perfect spring morning, by the songs of birds.
As I was thus brought to my senses, it took me a moment to realize just where I was, but a glance from my window reminded me.
I sprang up and threw aside the curtains, and revelled in the flowery breath of the morning air. Again, the view enchanted me. The distant hills, the nearer rolling fields and bits of woods, and closer yet, the wonderful park that surrounded the home of the Van Wycks.
Surely, I thought, Anne Mansfield was justified in marrying for a home, when one considered the home.
And that that was Anne’s reason for accepting David Van Wyck, I hadn’t the slightest doubt. Anne had been uncomfortably poor, as a girl, and I knew how she had always craved luxurious surroundings.
I didn’t for a moment believe she loved her husband. But I knew her well enough to be sure that her sense of honor and loyalty would keep her a true and devoted wife to him. If she flirted with Archer,—if she even coquetted with me,—it was only the natural amusement of a beautiful woman, who was frankly fond of admiration.
And thus I made excuses for her, as I stood looking out of my East window, and the sun grew more and more dazzling in its early morning splendor.
Beneath me spread the beautiful lawn, that would have done credit to an English ancestral castle. Here and there, I saw a gardener or other servant moving about, and I concluded the place was under good discipline. I looked backward to the East wing. Since I had been inside the study, I could judge better of its noble proportions and impressive lines. Yet, it looked forbidding. Not exactly sinister, but grim and rather awesome.
The long, narrow windows gave it a gloomy air, and as there was no entrance visible from where I looked, it seemed almost like a prison.
Ivy trailed over its casements, and the birds flew in and out of the vines, twittering.
It was really too early to dress and go downstairs, but I suddenly became possessed of a wild hope that Anne might be in the habit of strolling in the gardens before breakfast. I had not the least reason to suppose this, but a strange impatience urged me to go down and see. So, completing a leisurely toilet, I went downstairs, and through the great hall to the front door. A parlor-maid, who was dusting about, opened the door for me, and though I thought an expression of surprise showed for a moment on her face, she quickly suppressed it.
I stepped out into the beautiful morning, with a feeling of gladness that I had come down, even if I were doomed to solitude. I saw no sign of Anne, nor of any one else, save a few caretakers, and I started off for a long ramble through the grounds. Their interest and beauty well repaid me, and as I returned toward the house, I sat down upon a stone seat overlooking a picturesque ravine. Not far away, I could see the stables and garage, but there was no one stirring in their vicinity.
“Late risers, here,” I thought to myself, surprised that the stablemen should not yet be about.
And then I saw a woman peering in at the window of one of the buildings. My heart gave a leap, hoping that it might be Anne, but it was not. I saw, in a moment, that it was the housekeeper, Mrs. Carstairs.
She wore a smart white linen morning gown, so trig of appearance that she looked like some Parisienne dressed for an outing. The skirt was short, showing dainty white shoes and stockings, and altogether, she looked as little like an English housekeeper as could be imagined.
And then I recollected, no one had told me she was English. The valet had been called so, and doubtless his father was an Englishman, but this mysterious mother of his was certainly French, or I never saw a Frenchwoman. Then my musing concerning her nationality gave way to an interest in her present occupation,—for, surely, she was acting strangely.
She went round the garage, peering in at each window; now and then casting furtive glances, as if in fear of being observed. She could not see me, as I was hidden by some foliage plants. Then, leaving the garage, she walked back along the driveway toward the house, her eyes on the ground, as if looking for something.
Natural chivalry prompting me to assist her, I rose and walked rapidly toward her.
“May I help in your search, Mrs. Carstairs?” I said, in my most Chesterfieldian tones.
Apparently she had not heard my approach, for she turned as if greatly startled, and said, fairly gasping for breath:
“Oh,—oh; I thought you were—you—were someone else!”
“No, I’m myself,” I said, smiling, for we had met, for a few moments the evening before, and I was not at all unwilling to speak to her again. “Have you lost something?”
“Only my self-possession,” she returned, with such apt repartee, that I said, impulsively, “You are French, aren’t you?”
“Partly,” she replied, looking at me in surprise at my evident interest in the matter.
“And you haven’t lost anything else,—not so easily replaced?”
She caught my allusion and smiled; then, as if recollecting herself, she assumed a severely correct manner, and said: “No, thank you. I have lost nothing.”
“But you’ve been studying the ground all the way from the garage.”
She turned on me like a fury.
“Nothing of the sort!” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “How dare you say so? Why should I study the ground?”
“Good Heavens!” I cried; “it isn’t a crime to study the ground, is it? Why shouldn’t you, if you choose to?”
“I don’t choose to! I have no interest in the ground. I was—I was looking at the sky!”
“I won’t contradict you,” I said, politely, though aghast at this whopper. “Have you perhaps lost something in the sky, then?”
“Yes; a couple of Pleiads,” she replied, with an irrepressible laugh, and I marvelled afresh to hear a housekeeper talk in this strain.
“I am certainly destined to get no ‘Lost and Found Information,’ ” I said, though uncertain as to whether I ought to talk to her in this companionable way.
“Are you out for information this morning?”
“I'm really out to see if the Poets sing true about the delights of early rising. But I’m always glad to absorb information if it comes in my way.”
“Do you want it on any especial subject?”
“Yes,” I returned, daringly. “I want to know why you detest Mrs. Van Wyck so intensely.”
It was interesting to watch Mrs. Carstairs’s face after this. First, she gave me a stare of blank amazement; then, a flash of indignation burst from her stormy eyes; then, like a ray of sunlight, she smiled sweetly, and said: “I don’t detest her; I adore her!” And then she turned from me, and walked swiftly down a by-path.
I looked after her. She walked beautifully, without haste, but with a rapid, graceful movement. I knew perfectly well she had told me an untruth. She did detest Anne, and she had chosen a most clever way to deny it, and to close the conversation at the same time.
The path she took led toward the kitchen quarters, and she soon disappeared inside, while I went on, across the terrace and in at the rear door of the great hall.