On they came, madam watching with all her eyes. Mrs. Cumberland was in her usual black silk attire, and walked with the slow step of an invalid. Ellen wore a morning dress of lilac muslin. It needed not the lilac parasol she carried to reflect an additional lovely hue on that most lovely face. A stately, refined girl, as madam saw, with charming manners, the reverse of pretentious.
But as madam, fascinated for once in her life, gazed outwards, a certain familiarity in the face dawned upon her senses. That she had seen it before, or one very like it, became a conviction to her. "Who on earth is she?" murmured the lady to herself--for madam was by no means stilted in her phrases in leisure moments.
"Are you going to call at the Hall, Mrs. Cumberland?" inquired Ellen, venturing to ask the question at length in her increasing surprise. And every word could be distinctly heard by madam, for they were very close to her.
"I think so," was the answer, given in hesitating tones. "I--I should like to tell Mr. North that I feel for his loss."
"But is it not early to do so--both in the hour of the day, and after the death?" rejoined Ellen, with deprecation.
"For a stranger it would be; for me, no. I and John North were once as brother and sister. Besides, I have something else to say to him."
Had Miss Adair asked what the something else was--which she would not have presumed to do--Mrs. Cumberland might have replied that she wished again to enlist the Hall's influence on behalf of her son, now that Mr. Alexander was about to leave. A sure indication that it was not the real motive that was drawing her to the Hall, for she was one of those reticent women who rarely, if ever, observe candour even to friends. Suddenly she halted.
"I prefer to go on alone, Ellen. You can sit down and wait for me. There are benches about in the covered walks."
Mrs. Cumberland went forward. Ellen turned and began to walk towards the entrance-gates with the lingering step of one who waits. Mrs. Cumberland had gone well on, when she turned and called.
"Ellen."
But Ellen did not hear.
"Ellen! Ellen Adair!"
A louder call, this, falling on the warm summer air, echoing in the curious ears covered by the lace mantilla. Mrs. North gave a quick, sharp start. It looked very like a start of terror.
"Ellen Adair!" she repeated to herself, her eyes, in their fear, flashing out on the beautiful face, to see whether she could trace the resemblance now. "Ellen Adair? Good Heavens!"
Ellen had turned at once. "Yes, Mrs. Cumberland."
"Do not go within sight of the road, my dear. I don't care that all the world should know I am calling at Dallory Hall. Find a bench and sit down, as I bade you."
Obedient as it was in her nature to be, the young lady turned into one of the side paths, which brought her within nearer range of madam's view. She, madam, with a face from which every atom of colour had faded, leaving it white as ashes, stood still as a statue, as one confounded.
"I see the likeness: it is to him," she muttered. "Can he have come home?"
Ellen Adair passed out of sight and hearing. Madam, shaking herself from her fear, turned with stealthy steps to seek the house, keeping in the private paths as long as possible, which was a more circuitous way. Madam intended, unseen, to make a third at the interview between her husband and Mrs. Cumberland. The sight of that girl's face had frightened her. There might be treason in the air.
Mrs. Cumberland was already in Mr. North's parlour. Strolling out amongst his flowers, he had encountered her in the garden, and taken her in through the open window. Madam arriving a little later, passed through the hall to the dining-room. Rather inopportunely, there sat Bessy, busy with her housekeeping books.
"Take them elsewhere," said madam, with an imperious sweep of the hand.
She was not in the habit of giving a reason for any command whatever: let it be reasonable or the contrary, the rule was to hear and obey. Bessy gathered her books up and went away, madam fastening the bolt of the door after her.
Then she stole across the soft Turkey carpet and slipped into the closet already spoken of, that formed a communication--though never used--between the dining-room and Mr. North's parlour. The door opening to the parlour was unlatched, and had been ever since he put his slippers inside it an hour ago. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, madam saw them there; she also saw one or two of his old brown gardening coats hanging on the pegs. Against the wall was a narrow table with an unlocked desk upon it, belonging to herself. It was clever of madam to keep it there. Opening the lid silently, she pulled up a few of its valueless papers, and let them appear. Of course, if the closet were suddenly entered from the parlour--a most unlikely thing to happen, but madam was cautious--she was only getting something from her desk. In this manner she had occasionally made an unsuspected third at Richard North's interviews with his father. Letting the lace hood slip off, madam bent her ear to the crevice of the door, and stood there listening. She was under the influence of terror still: her lips were drawn, her face wore the hue of death.
Apparently the ostensible motive of the interview--Mrs. Cumberland's wish to express her sympathy for the blow that had fallen on the Hall--was over; she had probably also been asking for Mr. North's influence in favour of her son. The first connected words madam caught were these:--
"I will do what I can, Mrs. Cumberland. I wished to do it before, as you know. But Mrs. North took a dislike--I mean took a fancy to Alexander."
"You mean took a dislike to Oliver," corrected Mrs. Cumberland. "In the old days, when you were John North without thought of future grandeur, and I was Fanny Gass, we spoke out freely to each other."
"True," said poor Mr. North. "I've never had such good days since. Ah, what a long time it seems to look back to! I have grown into an old man, Fanny, older in feeling than in years; and you--you wasted the best days of your life in a hot and unhealthy climate."
"Unhealthy in places and at certain seasons," corrected Mrs. Cumberland. "My husband was stationed in the beautiful climate of the Blue Mountains, as we familiarly call the region of the Neilgherry Hills. It is pleasant there."
"Ay, I've heard so. Getting the cool breezes and all that."
"People used to come up there from the hot plains to regain their lost health," continued Mrs. Cumberland, whose thoughts were apt to wander back to the earlier years of her exile. "Ootacamund is resorted to there, just as the colder seaside places are here. But I and Mr. Cumberland were stationary."
"Ootacamund?" repeated Mr. North, struck with the name. "Ootacamund was where my wife's first husband died; Major Bohun."
"No, he did not die there," quietly rejoined Mrs. Cumberland.
"Was it not there? Ah! well, it does not matter. One is apt to confuse these foreign names and places in the memory."
Mrs. Cumberland made no rejoinder, and a momentary silence ensued. Madam, who with the mention of the place, Ootacamund, bit her lip almost to bleeding, bent forward, and looked through the opening of the door. She could just see the smallest portion of the cold, calm, grey face, and waited in sickening apprehension of what the next words might be. They came from Mrs. Cumberland and proved an intense relief, for the subject was changed for another.
"I am about to make a request to you, John: I hope you will grant it for our old friendship's sake. Let me see the anonymous letter that proved so fatal to Edmund. Every incident connected with this calamity is to me so full of painful interest!" she continued, as if seeking to apologize for her request. "As I lay awake last night, unable to sleep, it came into my mind that I would ask you to let me see the letter."
"You may see it, and welcome," was Mr. North's ready reply, as he unlocked a drawer in his old secretaire, and handed the paper to her. "I only wish I could