Man and Maid Part 12

"Oh, certainly." Milly tossed her head, and Jane's fingers tightened on the chair-back. "Yes, I don't wonder you look ill--I suppose you were sorry when you'd done it. But it's no use being sorry; you should have thought of all that before."

"Tell me," said Jane, low.

"I'll tell you fast enough. You shall see I do know. Well, then, that story you sent me--you just copied it from a story of Edgar's that was in the old cabinet. He wrote it when he was here; and he said it wasn't good, and I said it was, and then he said he'd leave it in the secret drawer, and see how it looked when he came back. And you found it. And you thought you were very clever, I daresay, and that Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But I knew, and----"

"Yes," Jane interrupted, "you said that before. So you think I found Edgar's ma.n.u.script? If I did it I must have done it in my sleep. I used to walk in my sleep when I was a child. You believe me, Milly, don't you?"

"No," said Milly, "I don't."

"Then I'll say nothing more," said Jane with bitter dignity. "I will go at once, and I will try to forgive your cruelty. _I_ would never have doubted _your_ word--never. I am very ill--look at me. I had a sleeping draught, and I suppose it upset me: such things have happened. You've known me eight or nine years: have you ever known me do a dishonourable thing, or tell a lie? The dishonour is in yourself, to believe such things of me."

Jane had drawn herself up, and stood, tall and haggard, her dark eyes glowing in their deep sockets. The other woman was daunted. She hesitated, stammered half a word, and was silent.

"Good-bye," said Jane; "and I hope to G.o.d no one will ever be such a brute to you as you have been to me." She turned, but before she reached the door Milly had caught her by the arm.

"No, don't, don't!" she cried. "I _do_ believe you, I do! You poor darling! You must have done it in your sleep. Oh, forgive me, Jane dear.

I'll never tell a soul, and Edgar----"

"Ah," said Jane, turning mournful eyes on her, "Edgar would have believed in me."

And at that Milly understood--in part, at least--and held out her arms.

"Oh, you poor dear! and I never even guessed! Oh, forgive me!" and she cried over Jane and kissed her many times. "Oh, my dear!" she said, as Jane yielded herself to the arms and her face to the kisses, "I've got something to tell you. You must be brave."

"No--no more," Jane said shrilly; "I can't bear any more. I don't want to know how it happened, or anything. He's dead--that's enough."

"But----" Milly clung sobbing to her, sobbing with sympathy and agitation.

Jane pushed her back, held her at arm's length and looked at her with eyes that were still dry.

"You're a good little thing, after all," she said. "Yes--now I'll tell you. You were quite right. It was a lie--but half of it was true--the half I told you--but I wanted you to believe the other half too. I did walk in my sleep, and I must have opened that cabinet and taken Edgar's story out, because I found myself standing there with it in my hands.

And he was dead, and---- Oh, Milly. I knew he was dead, of course, and yet he was there--I give you my word he was there, and I heard him say 'Take it, take it, take it!' quite plainly, like I'm speaking to you now. And I took it; and I copied it out--it took me nearly all night--and then I sent it to you. And I'd never have told you the truth as long as you didn't believe me--never--never. But now you do believe me I won't lie to you. There! Let me go. I think I was mad then, and I know I am now. Tell every one. I don't care."

But Milly threw her arms round her again. The love interest had overpowered the moral sense. What did the silly story, or the theft, or the lie matter--what were they, compared with the love-secret she had surprised?

"My darling Jane," she said, holding her friend closely and still weeping lavishly, "don't worry about the story: I quite understand.

Let's forget it. You've got quite enough trouble to bear without that.

But there's one thing, it's just as well I found out before the story was published. Because Edgar isn't dead. His ship has been towed in: he's at home."

Jane laughed.

"Don't cry, dear," said Milly; "I'll help you to bear it. Only--oh dear, how awful it is for you!--he's going to be married."

Jane laughed again; and then she thinks the great, green waves really did rise up all round the quaint dining-room--rise mountains high, and, falling, cover her.

Jane was ill so long that Milly had to tell Edgar about the story after all, and they sent it in, and it was published in Jane's name. So the little brothers were all right. And he wrote the next story for her too, and they corrected the proofs together.

Jane has always thought it a pity that Milly had not troubled to ask the name of the girl whom Edgar intended to marry, because the name proved, on enquiry, to be Jane.

V

THE MILLIONAIRESS

I

It is a dismal thing to be in London in August. The streets are up for one thing, and your cab can never steer a straight course for the place you want to go to. And the trees are brown in the parks, and every one you know is away, so that there would be nowhere to go in your cab, even if you had the money to pay for it, and you could go there without extravagance.

Stephen Guillemot sat over his uncomfortable breakfast-table in the rooms he shared with his friend, and cursed his luck. His friend was away by the sea, and he was here in the dirty and sordid blackness of his Temple chambers. But he had no money for a holiday; and when Dornington had begged him to accept a loan, he had sworn at Dornington, and Dornington had gone off not at all pleased. And now Dornington was by the sea, and he was here. The flies buzzed in the panes and round the sticky marmalade jar; the sun poured in at the open window. There was no work to do. Stephen was a solicitor by trade; but, in fact and perforce, an idler. No business came to him. All day long the steps of clients sounded on the dirty, old wooden staircase--clients for Robinson on the second, for Jones on the fourth, but none for Guillemot on the third.

Even now steps were coming, though it was only ten o'clock. The young man glanced at the marmalade jar, at the crooked cloth stained with tea, which his laundress had spread for his breakfast.

"Suppose it is a client----" He broke off with a laugh. He had never been able to cure himself of that old hope that some day the feet of a client--a wealthy client--would pause at his door, but the feet had always gone by--as these would do. The steps did indeed pa.s.s his door, paused, came back, and--oh wonder! it was _his_ knocker that awoke the Temple echoes.

He glanced at the table. It was hopeless. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I daresay it's only a bill," he said, and went to see.

The newcomer was impatient, for even as Guillemot opened the door, the knocker was in act to fall again.

"Is Mr Guillemot---- Oh, Stephen, I should have known you anywhere!"

A radiant vision in a white linen gown--a very smart tailor-made-looking linen gown--and a big white hat was standing in his doorway, shaking him warmly by the hand.

"Won't you ask me in?" asked the vision, smiling in his bewildered face.

He drew back mechanically, and closed the door after him as she went in.

Then he followed her into the room that served him for office and living-room, and stood looking at her helplessly.

"You don't know me a bit," she said; "it's a shame to tease you. I'll take off my hat and veil; you will know me then. It's these fine feathers!"

And take them off she did--in front of the fly-spotted gla.s.s on the mantel-piece; then she turned a bright face on him, a pretty mobile face, crowned with bright brown hair. And still he stood abashed.

"I never thought you would have forgotten the friend of childhood's hour," she began again. "I see I must tell you in cold blood."

"Why, it's Rosamund!" he cried suddenly. "Do forgive me! I never, never dreamed---- My dear Rosamund, you aren't really changed a bit it's only--your hair being done up and----"

"And the fine feathers," said she, holding out a fold of her dress.

"They are very pretty feathers, aren't they?"

"Very," said he. And then suddenly a silence of embarra.s.sment fell between them.

The girl broke it with a laugh that was not quite spontaneous.

"How funny it all is!" she said. "I went to New York with my uncle when dear papa died--and then I went to Girton, and now poor uncle's dead, and----" Her eye fell on the tablecloth. "I'm going to clear away this horrid breakfast of yours," she said.