CHAPTER XIX.

AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN.

Time hung heavily on Mrs. Trelane’s hands for all the comfort and luxury of the house.

She missed the freedom, missed the theaters, the little suppers at restaurants, missed more than either the companionship of the men who were wont to gather round her in London--gentlemen with reputations out at elbows, but clever, amusing, the very salt of life to Helen Trelane.

Therefore, she said at breakfast, with a little distasteful sigh, that she must go to London, to see the dressmaker.

Ismay lifted her brows.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you. You can bully people better in writing.” Her tone was very significant.

She supposed the “dressmaker” meant an appeal to the mercy of a man who had none, and then a mad whirl of amusement, her mourning thrown to the winds.

But she was wrong. Mrs. Trelane had no thought of Wray.

“I really must go,” she said, “annoying as it is. Should you mind, Cristiane?”

“Not a bit. You won’t stay long, will you? I shall teach Ismay to ride while you are gone,” with a little, affectionate glance. “We shall be quite happy.”

“Oh, no! Not long, of course.”

In spite of herself, her tone was joyous as a child’s. To be in London, with money, to drink deep of life again. No wonder her voice betrayed her.

Ismay followed her to her room, where she stood, in her smart mourning.

“The Gaiety, the Café Royal, and cards afterward till daylight may be amusing,” she observed cuttingly, “but they are not worth your neck.”

“What do you mean?” In her annoyance, Mrs. Trelane almost dropped the bottle of peach-blossom scent in her hand.

“I mean you’ll go to London, and wear a white gown in the evenings, with a string of mock pearls round your neck. Because the gossip about Lord Abbotsford has died away you are quite comfortable,” Ismay retorted; “and about now the police will be waking up to their work. London will not be a good retreat for the person who killed him!”

“Ismay!” The scent-bottle crashed on the floor now from the loosened fingers; strong and sickly, its contents flooded the room. “Ismay, are you mad? What has come over you? You know that”--her voice fell to a frightened whisper--“that he was dead when I went there.” She looked old and wretched as she stood, ready dressed to start.

“I know what you choose to tell me. Oh! mother,” passionately, “let us both go away from here, go somewhere that is safe, and live quietly, you and I. I’ll work for you----”

A laugh cut her short. Yet Mrs. Trelane stood, wringing her hands.

“You know we can’t get away,” she cried, “and why should we? I never killed Abbotsford!”

“Then why are you so frightened of Marcus Wray?” deliberately.

“You little fool. I took the diamonds!” She stooped and picked up the fragments of her cut-glass bottle. “You know all I did,” she cried, straightening herself to face her daughter, her clean-cut face very pale. “What on earth has changed you, till you talk like a Sunday-school book? What has become of your fine plan for securing Mr. Cylmer, that you try to frighten me into leaving here with your silly, lying accusation? You work for me?” she laughed miserably. “Would you take in washing?”

Ismay’s passion of earnestness left her with her old manners, her old catlike grace. She flung herself into a chair.

“Never mind what I’d do. I meant it,” she retorted. “As for Mr. Cylmer, you can let him alone. I would have let him go--for you--five minutes ago. But I don’t think I would--now! Go to London,” politely, “but don’t forget my advice. You ought to know by this time it’s more lucky to take it.”

“I know you are an ungrateful little idiot,” said Mrs. Trelane angrily. And with that for her only farewell, she swept down-stairs to get into her carriage. Ismay turning pious was a good joke. As for Cylmer, it was simply girlish boasting. Mrs. Trelane felt quite safe on that score as she drove away. It was not in the least likely that he would come to Marchant’s Hold, or that Ismay would get hold of him, and bring down the wrath of Marcus Wray. All girls had a hero, usually out of reach. Why should Ismay be superior to the rest? And as for Wray and his awful schemes, with his absence their very memory had vanished from the light mind of the woman who lived to please herself. It was all absurd nonsense, he would not dare to go any farther with it.

All her fears soothed to rest, she proceeded to spend a cheerful afternoon on reaching London, little knowing how she had rocked her troubles to sleep with lying hopes.

In his chambers, Marcus Wray sat reading a short newspaper paragraph over and over, his fingers tapping at his knee, his lips hard set.

Only a short paragraph, but it meant danger, and he frowned as he read. Helen Trelane up in London, dressed in her best, was like a child playing with a smoking bomb; if Mr. Wray had known of it he would have packed her straight off to the country, and gone with her himself, which it was well for Ismay that he did not do.

She was very nervous about the sudden freak her mother had taken; in some way or other it was sure to mean more trouble. And she was disappointed about her afternoon.

At lunch Cristiane had mentioned carelessly that Cylmer had sent a groom over with the horse borrowed the day before; that was all, but Ismay knew he had meant to come himself, and had thought better of it.

She would not listen when Cristiane proposed lending her a habit and taking her out riding.

“I think I’ve got a headache,” she said wearily. “You go for a ride, and I’ll walk a little by myself. I’ll be all right at tea-time.”

She strolled out through the quiet winter lanes when Cristiane was gone. She was very pale to-day, very languid, a presentiment of evil was heavy at her heart. Her mother had been mad to go to London; she herself was more idiotic, still, to think that Miles Cylmer would ever care for her.

Tired at last, she sat down on a stile between two fields, and leaned back, staring in front of her. Somehow, her heart was faint within her to-day, but why any more than yesterday?

“Because I sha’n’t see him, and I want him,” she thought dreamily. “I want something that will strengthen me, something that I can look back to, and think that nothing matters since I was happy once. And I will be happy. I will!”

Her scarlet mouth was so determined that a man who had come up unnoticed smiled as he saw it. Yet briefly, for her face was pathetically weary, more than ever it bore that prophecy of tragedy that seemed so out of place for Ismay Trelane.

“Where are your thoughts?” Cylmer said lightly. “Oh, did I startle you?”

For Ismay, who never blushed, had turned first a faint rose, then a fiery scarlet, that burned on her smooth cheeks.

“My thoughts?” Confused, she put her hands to her face. “Oh, anywhere. Yes, of course, you startled me.” But she was mistress of herself again now, and she smiled into his eyes as he stood before her, cap in hand.

“I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” Why did the girl’s glance go to his head like wine? Why did he think of nothing, want nothing, but to sit and talk with the daughter of an adventuress whom he scarcely knew?

He sat down beside her on the stile.

“I was going to see you,” he said, “though, I must say, I was shy about it. Your mother, with excellent reason, hates me.”

“My mother has gone to London,” simply.

“And I don’t think Cristiane is overfond of my society.”

“Why not?” she asked languidly.

“Good taste, I suppose,” was the answer, and both laughed.

“I was taking you something. Will you have it?” he asked, and she saw that he carried something. Before she could answer he had laid in her lap a great bunch of roses, crimson, sweet smelling.

The girl stared at them as they lay in her lap. In all her life no one had ever given her a flower. She put the roses to her face with a quick tenderness no one had ever seen in her.

As she looked up at him, her eyes were very deep and soft. She held the roses tightly in both hands.

“Why are you giving them to me?” she said wonderingly.

“Because you’ve had so little. Because I thought you might like them.”

“I do.” Her voice was very low. “But how do you know I’ve had--so little?”

“Lord De Fort told me,” was on his tongue, but it stuck there.

“Do you remember that night at the Palace?” he asked, instead. “Shall I tell you what I saw there? A girl in a threadbare black gown, worn at the elbows, and too thin for the weather; a girl who was pale and very tired, but more beautiful than any woman I had ever seen. Do you know that, Ismay?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Then you know now,” he retorted, his face very pale, his eyes, that were so sweet, close to hers. “I thought I cared for some one else, then--now I know that I would let everything in this world go to be with you--even honor!”

Why did the two last words almost stop her heart, that was beating so quick? Why should Ismay Trelane, to whom honor was but a foolish thing, a mere word, turn cold, to think he would let it go--for her. She flung out her hands with a little cry.

“Why should you let it go--for me?” She was panting for breath. “Do you mean that I, who am nobody, and have come here from the gutters, am a thing you could not touch and keep your honor?”

“No, no! Not that. Don’t think I dared mean that. It was only a way of saying”--he took one little bare hand, and held it in strong fingers that were very careful--“how much I love you.”

“You love me?” For once she was not thinking or acting a part; not thinking of all Cylmer could give her; not thinking of anything but that he was beside her, his voice low in her ears, his hand in hers.

“It can’t be true,” she said desperately. “When I came here you loved Cristiane; I saw it in her face when she came in that first day.”

For a minute he was staggered.

“I thought I did.” And at the truth in his voice Ismay’s heart jumped. “I know now I never did, for I love you. When I kissed you that day I knew that your lips on mine had made me yours to take or leave. Which will you do, Ismay?”

“Yet a little time after you said things to my mother that----” She stopped, and did not look at him.

“I did not know she was your mother.”

“It did not matter. They were true. They are just as true now. Can you love me, knowing them?”

For the first time she spoke with a purpose. There must be no slip between the cup and the lip for want of a little plain speaking.

“Can I love you? Can I help breathing?” almost angrily. “I tell you I am yours to take or leave. Which is it, Ismay?”

She turned her face to him deliberately; as she lifted her chin, he saw the long, lovely line of it, that slipped into her throat; saw the milky whiteness of her oval cheek, that just missed being hollow; saw her eyes, dark and green, full of his own image; saw her lips--the man was dizzy as she spoke.

“Take me,” she whispered. “Love me, kill me, it is all one to me, for I--love you!” And in her face there was all that miracle of pure passion that had never shone on Cristiane’s, whom he had thought he loved.

With something very near to reverence, Miles Cylmer kissed her. As he let her go, he was shaking.

Hand in hand, like two children, they sat, as the winter sun set in a pale glory behind the leafless trees.

Ismay looked at him, soft malice in her eyes.

“By the way, why are you here on a hunting-day?” she inquired demurely.

“I’ve a sore bridle-hand,” he said calmly.

She caught the quick look he flashed on her, that was both sweet and mischievous.

“What a story, Mr. Cylmer!” childishly.

“Mr. who?”

“Mr. Cylmer. It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Not to you.” He turned her face to him with a masterful hand. “Are you going to call me that when you come to live over there?” he whispered, and laughed with pleasure as the blood leaped to her face.

“Live over there?” she stammered, looking to where, on the far-off hill, the roof of Cylmer’s Ferry caught the last sunbeams.

“I don’t see where else you’re going to live when you marry me.”

“Marry you!” Every trace of color left her cheek. “I--can’t marry you.”

“What! Why not?” His careless, teasing voice turned her cold. “Tell me, why not, my witch?”

Tell him! She turned with sudden passion, and clung to him, hiding her face in his rough tweed coat.

What had she done through this mad love that possessed her? What was she to do?

The first word of her marriage with another man would make a very devil in Marcus Wray. She would look well being married to Cylmer, while her mother was being tried for her life for the murder of Lord Abbotsford, for that was what her stolen love would bring to her.

“My love, my only love!” She crushed the words back against his shoulder, thankful to hide her face, and yet agonized, for how long would its shelter be hers if he knew?

“Ismay, what’s the matter?” Cylmer was suddenly frightened at the wild cling of her hand in his. “Why can’t you marry me? I thought you were playing--do you mean you are in earnest?”

In earnest, with the toils all around her; with murder past, and murder to come! She set her teeth hard before she answered.

“Mother would never hear of it,” she faltered lamely.

“Why not?” He made her look at him.

“She hates you.”

“But if you loved me?” wonderingly.

“It wouldn’t matter! And, besides----”

“Besides what?” He was very grave, his lips hard under his tawny mustache.

“She wants me to marry some one else. If she thought you loved me, she would do it all the more.”

“She couldn’t,” very quietly. “Do you think I am a boy, to be bullied?”

Ismay drew away from him. She could not think with her face against his warm shoulder, and think she must.

“Listen,” she said slowly. “I know my mother better than you. Let me get her round by degrees before we tell her anything; let nobody know just yet that you care.”

“Who is the other man?” shortly. “Do you mean you are engaged to him?”

Ismay turned, and looked at him.

“I mean I hate him”--her voice low, with unutterable loathing--“as I shall hate you, whom I love, if you dare to think that of me.”

The truth and passion in her voice made him wince with shame.

“Ismay!” he cried. “Oh, love, forgive me!”

“I’d forgive you if you killed me,” recklessly.

“But you must listen to me, and never tell you love me till I say it is time.”

“Through life and death and past the grave.”

“Anything, if you love me, and only me.”

They stood close now, his arms fast round her; through the silk of his mustache she felt his lips on hers, and knew that, come what might, for one long instant she had stood at the gate of heaven.

“My sweet, how can I leave you?” he said, letting her go a little that he might feast his eyes on her face, that was transfigured.

“Leave me? Why should you leave me?”

“Kiss me again, and I’ll tell you.”

But she could not; a curious premonition had suddenly brought her back to the old Ismay Trelane, who must watch, and think, and scheme.

“Tell me, now,” she said, and at the weariness in her voice he drew her to him, penitently.

“Was I too rough with you, sweet? I’m so sorry. But I really have to go away; that was why I came over to-day. I must go to London to-morrow.”

“Away from me?” but she could not smile.

“Does town count before me?”

“Nothing does. But after you comes a duty to the dead.”

“To the dead?” She stared at him. “Do you mean Sir Gaspard?”

“No; but it’s a ghastly thing to talk of to-day.”

“Tell me; you’re frightening me; I--I hate death.”

“Don’t be frightened, sweet; it is nothing to do with you, not much with me. But do you remember how they found Lord Abbotsford dead this autumn? Or did you ever hear of it?”

“I--I heard.” Her eyes, black, dilated, with terror, stared, unseeing, at his unconscious face.

“Well, I’ve had a detective working at it ever since--and--this is the first secret I’ve ever told you, sweet, and it is a secret--he wants to see me at once. He thinks he has got a clue to the murderer. Why, Ismay! Darling! Why did I speak of such a horror to you?” with dismay.

For she had slipped like water through his arms, a lifeless heap on the cold ground.