CHAPTER XII.

“IF I ASK YOU?”

Mr. Cylmer was not back at Marchant’s Hold as soon as he had expected.

Three days after his arrival in London he was still there, and he sat now in Mr. Bolton’s private office listening impatiently to the old man’s precise sentences. He had been put off from day to day till now; there was no news, nothing definite. Mr. Cylmer must excuse Mr. Bolton for not seeing him, as he had nothing to communicate--and so on. Small wonder that when at last he was admitted Miles Cylmer sat impatiently in the client’s chair of Mr. Bolton’s sanctum.

“The exact news is this,” the lawyer said slowly: “Sir Gaspard was taken ill in Paris, and, being nervous, made a will, calling in a lawyer who was in the hotel. The Dean of Chelsea, also a guest in the house, and the proprietor were witnesses, and the will was placed by the latter in his safe. A duplicate Sir Gaspard took with him on his ill-fated journey. He left that night for Rome by the Mont Cenis route, and at dawn the train was wrecked, just before it reached Aix. When I say wrecked I mean there was an accident merely.”

“Of course!” Cylmer fidgeted. What did it matter how the thing happened; it had no connection with Sir Gaspard’s affairs.

“In the sleeping-carriage, or just beside it, Sir Gaspard and his servant were found by the guard, who had escaped injury and was able to identify them, or, rather, the servant”--clearing his throat hastily--“for the burning carriage had--well! the man knew it was Sir Gaspard; he had noticed the fur-lined coat he traveled in, and there were charred fragments of it around the body.” Mr. Bolton paused; old friend as he was of Gaspard le Marchant, the manner of his death sickened him.

“Was there no one else in the carriage?”

“One other man, a Frenchman. But he must have been caught in the burning carriage and utterly destroyed. The railway people sent a very clean report, and it has been corroborated by wire by the clerk I sent over at once. He saw the bodies. I am afraid there is no doubt, for he had often seen Parker. I was in the habit of sending him to Marchant’s Hold on business. Sir Gaspard of late came to town very seldom.”

“I remember that fur-lined coat,” Cylmer said unwillingly. He remembered also the history of it; the sables of its lining had been a present from Sir Gaspard’s Russian wife; it was for her sake that he wore it.

“But it was curious that he should have made a will in that sudden way,” he protested.

“Not in his state of health,” Bolton returned. “I saw his doctor yesterday, and I learned from him that Sir Gaspard’s death was in any case imminent. He had a mortal disease--and knew it. Personally, I think he went to Rome to die there--at least he meant to do so. That, you see, explains his making a will.”

Cylmer nodded.

“How did you hear of the will?” he asked.

“I thought I told you,” patiently. “The will, with a letter from Dubourg, the hotel proprietor, reached me yesterday. In it he mentioned the Dean of Chelsea as one of the witnesses, and him I saw this morning. It was all perfectly regular. The dean read both wills at Sir Gaspard’s bidding. They were exactly alike. He thought him looking very ill at the time.”

“Poor little Cristiane!” Cylmer said involuntarily. “It is a great responsibility for her, all that money and land.”

“She is young”--with the unconscious cynicism of years--“the world--life--will console her! But I could wish I had been left her guardian.”

“What!” Cylmer’s handsome face was blank. “Who is, then, if you are not?”

“Madam Trelane,” said the other dryly. “I can tell you that much without a breach of confidence, for the dean will have told half London by now.”

“That woman he sent down to stay with Cristiane!”

The words were irrepressible. At the mention of Mrs. Trelane there sprang into Cylmer’s mind the memory of the only day he had seen her, and once more he wondered why she made him think of Abbotsford.

“Who is she? Did she mean to marry Le Marchant?” he said quickly.

“My dear sir”--Mr. Bolton coughed dryly--“Mrs. Trelane was Helen le Marchant, Sir Gaspard’s own cousin, and the nearest relative he had except Cristiane. And she is said to be a clever woman.”

“Where has she been all this time?” Cylmer said slowly. “I never heard of her.”

“In London.” There was no need to air all he knew of Helen Trelane. Yet, in spite of his caution, there was deep distrust of her on his face.

“A clever woman!” he repeated quietly; “as you will see when the will is read to-morrow.”

Miles Cylmer got up, a strange look on his handsome face.

“If he has left the money to any one but Cristiane,” he said with a ring of reckless truth in his voice, “I’ll settle twenty thousand pounds on her. I would marry her--but she won’t have me. Anyhow, as long as I live she shall have all the money she wants.”

“You are too hasty, Mr. Cylmer;” but there was a kind of pity in the old lawyer’s eyes. “The child’s fortune is hers, but the reversion is Mrs. Trelane’s and her daughter’s.”

“Was Sir Gaspard a lunatic?” Miles cried.

Mr. Bolton shook his head.

“No; only a good man, who knew nothing of the world,” he answered cynically. “Good morning, Mr. Cylmer. If you go to Marchant’s Hold before I do be good enough to keep my confidence.”

“I’m traveling down with you,” Cylmer returned with sudden haughtiness. “I’ll meet you at the train to-night.” Yet as he turned he paused.

“Has Mrs. Trelane a husband?” he asked.

“Dead, years ago! A man who was his own enemy,” briefly. “She and her daughter were alone and in poverty when Sir Gaspard found them.”

“And paid their debts?” said Cylmer searchingly.

“Very possibly.” Mr. Bolton was still negotiating with those unpaid tradesmen, but he did not say so. “Mrs. Trelane was a very pretty girl, Mr. Cylmer.”

“Then she has developed into a very well-painted lady,” Cylmer responded, and departed without more ceremony.

“Trelane! It’s not a common name,” he thought as he went down-stairs. “There must be some one in London who knows about her.”

He turned into his club at lunch-time, and looked up irritably as old Lord De Fort greeted him from the next table.

“Sad news this about Le Marchant,” the neat old dandy said, tapping his newspaper. “A young man, too. And not a relative to come in for all that money but his daughter.”

“His cousin, Mrs. Trelane--perhaps!” The last word with late wisdom.

“Trelane? Not Helen Trelane?” Lord De Fort put up a shaky eye-glass and stared at Cylmer.

“That’s her name, yes! Why?”

“Gad! So she is his cousin. I sincerely hope she’s forgotten it.”

Cylmer got up and seated himself at Lord De Fort’s table.

“Why?” he demanded. “Speak out. I only saw the woman once in my life.”

Lord De Fort obliged him. Under the sharp tongue of the old dandy every shred of honor and virtue fell away from Helen Trelane. Her life was set forth in detail, till Cylmer bit his lip as he sat silent. This was the woman to whom was given the guardianship of a young girl, this adventuress whom even Lord De Fort despised.

“She has a daughter,” Cylmer said at last, with a faint gleam of hope that the girl might be different.

“Who grew too clever and so was sent to school. I used to see the child, a skinny imp of ten, going to the pawn-shop of a morning. Helen Trelane was in deep waters then.”

Cylmer got up to go, but something made him pause.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “was this Mrs. Trelane ever a friend of Abbotsford’s?”

“What! The man who was murdered? My dear sir, I don’t know. What put it into your head?”

“It was just idle curiosity,” said Cylmer hastily. “I have no reason to think so,” for, after all, he had no right to drag any woman’s name into an affair like that.

“Humph!” Lord De Fort gave a dry grunt. “I don’t think she ever knew him. Mrs. Trelane is much too clever a woman to have ever known a murdered man.”

Cylmer’s head was dizzy as he left the club. To think of Cristiane down in the country, away from every one, with a woman like that, in her absolute power for years to come, made him burn with useless rage.

A sudden thought came over him as he walked aimlessly down the street, his features drawn with worry. If he could see the woman now, before she knew of that iniquitous will, perhaps he could terrify her into letting him buy her off. His promise to Mr. Bolton would not stand in his way; that was only that he would not mention his knowledge of Sir Gaspard’s will--surely the very last piece of information he would wish to give to Helen Trelane.

Mr. Cylmer took the first train for home.

“I can make the country too hot to hold her, and I’ll tell her so,” he reflected as he got out at the little way station for Marchant’s Hold. But he was uncomfortably conscious that if she did not care, and said so, he was powerless.

Mrs. Trelane, in immaculate black, was seated cozily over the drawing-room fire, outwardly calm, inwardly a prey to forebodings. She never looked up as the door opened, and unannounced, unexpected, Miles Cylmer walked in. She sprang to her feet, utterly astounded. Then she remembered he had been Sir Gaspard’s most intimate friend.

“It is Mr. Cylmer, is it not?” she said quietly, peering at him in the firelight. “Have you any news?”

He looked at her, at the tea-table where the silver glittered sumptuously; at all the luxury of the room. It might all come to be this woman’s own. Already she looked as though she were mistress. He seemed not to see the hand she held out to him, and, white and smooth, she let it fall to her black skirts.

“No, there is no fresh news. It is all quite true, that is all.” His voice rang harshly in spite of himself.

Mrs. Trelane, looking at him, was somehow afraid. He looked as though he had come for a purpose.

“Poor Cristiane!” she said gently. “You would like to see her? I hardly know--I am afraid----”

“I came to see you!” This time he saw her quick start as the fire blazed up. “I have just come from London. I met a friend of yours there.”

“A friend of mine?” she stammered. “Did they send you to me?”

She had only one thought, Lord Abbotsford lying dead in the little rose-colored room. Had anything come out? On a sudden her very throat was dry.

Cylmer had not sat down; she wished he would not stand over her, as if he threatened her.

“I have few friends,” her voice was wonderfully steady. “Who was this?”

“Lord De Fort.” He looked at her masterfully. “Mrs. Trelane, you are a clever woman. I think you will see that Marchant’s Hold will not give your--abilities--scope!”

Lord De Fort! It was he and his old stories that had made her shake in her chair! She would have laughed aloud had she dared.

“Lord De Fort hates me!” She shrugged her shoulders. “Have you come down here to tell me so?”

Her glance moved suddenly to a dark corner of the room. Did something stir there? Or was it a curtain swaying in a draft? Cylmer was puzzled. There was relief in her voice when he had implied that he knew what would have overwhelmed another woman with shame--and at first she had been terrified. What was she looking at now in the dark, over his shoulder?

He turned sharply.

A slim girl, all in black, her flaxen head held high, her eyes very dark in the fitful light, stood behind him, for once the witch-smile absent from her mouth.

“Mother, please go to Cristiane,” she said almost sternly, and Mrs. Trelane without a word obeyed her. Ismay came a step nearer to Cylmer and looked him in the eyes.

“You!” she said, and the sound of her voice was like knives. “It is you, who would”--she stopped as if something suffocated her.

Cylmer put his hand on her shoulder, quick and hard.

“What are you doing here--with her?” he nodded toward the door.

“She is my mother,” the girl said simply. “I am Ismay Trelane!”

In the silence neither knew how long they stood motionless. The girl spoke first.

“I heard all you said,” she uttered slowly. “I know--oh! I know--what you meant. That we are not fit to stay here, my mother and I. Make your mind easy; we shall be turned out when the will is read! We have no money, nowhere to go; but that will not concern you.”

Miles Cylmer felt suddenly contemptible. His righteous anger fell from him like a garment.

“You don’t understand,” he groaned. “You can’t.”

“Oh! but I do. That old man told you to-day that we were poor, disreputable. I tell you that Sir Gaspard found us starving, and he gave us a chance; a chance to start fair, to pay our debts, to have enough to eat and to wear! And then he died, and it was gone from us--like that!” with a little flick of her exquisite hand. “You need not threaten my mother; we shall be out of your way soon enough.”

“Ismay!” he cried, involuntarily, “I could not know she was your mother. What are you going to do?”

She took no heed of his words.

“Shall you tell Cristiane all you know? Or if I ask you”--there was sudden passion in her even voice, sudden fire in her strange eyes--“will you let us go from here as we came, just the decent, poor relations that her innocent soul thinks us? She will know evil soon enough. Will you tell her it is in her very house?”

“I will tell her--nothing,” he answered slowly. “God forbid that I, who promised to be your friend, should say the first word against your mother.”

Months afterward he knew that nothing on earth should have kept him from speaking out. Yet to what good? The will was hard and fast; nothing could be done to break it.

He turned away from the pleading eyes as if he dared not look in them. It was not till he was out in the frosty air that he remembered he had never even asked after Cristiane le Marchant.