“AND SO the frog turned into a Prince, and married the Princess and they lived happily ever afterwards.”
Elizabeth Martin’s tone was very sweet and low, it had a tender inflection as she stroked the golden hair of the child who sat on a stool at her knee. The governess had been a week at the Priory now and Maisie had quite got over her aversion to the new order of things. She and her governess were the best of friends, but so far Miss Martin had seen nothing of Sir Oswald. It had been understood that she was to read to him and to write his letters, but so far apparently Sir Oswald was not inclined to avail himself of her services.
To-day, however, she had been told that he would be glad to see her in his study in half an hour’s time, and she was feeling decidedly nervous at the prospect. She was beguiling the time by telling Maisie fairy tales. For the rest, she was settling down at the Priory. Maisie had proved amenable, as she had anticipated. Of Lady Davenant she saw little, often only meeting her at luncheon, but the old lady was kindness itself to her, and the old servants, and Latimer at their head, had apparently taken to her.
“I like that story,” Maisie said in her pretty, decided tones when the story concluded. “Not so well as that about the Princess who became a swan, though. I told that to Daddy yesterday and he said it was very interesting.”
“Did he?” Miss Martin said absently. Then she stood up. Maisie’s words had brought her back to the realization of the present, had reminded her that the half-hour Sir Oswald’s message had spoken of was nearly over. She went across to an oak-framed mirror that hung on the south wall, and glanced critically at herself in the glass. There was not a hair out of place on her dark, sleek head, her black gown with its plain white collar was as simple as any nun’s. She turned and took Maisie’s hand.
“Come, dear, we will go to the study now.”
“Yes. And I will introduce you,” Maisie laughed skipping along beside her. “Daddy said I was to. Do you know, Miss Martin”—her voice dropping to a confidential whisper—“I believe Daddy is a bit afraid of you. I do really. He said yesterday, “I ought not to have let my mother make arrangements for me.’ He said—”
“Maisie dear, don’t you know that you must never repeat what people say?” Miss Martin’s tone was not quite steady as she interrupted. She stopped a moment outside the study door, trembling nervously as though she could hardly bring herself to knock.
Maisie settled matters for her. With a joyous shout of “Daddy! Daddy! Miss Martin has come,” she flung open the door and rushed in.
As Miss Martin hesitated on the threshold her eyes took in the whole scene. The room was pleasant and homelike enough, but there was something indescribably dreary and forlorn about the aspect of the man who sat in one of the big arm-chairs near the fireplace. There was hopeless dejection in the droop of the broad shoulders, in every line of the dark, rugged face.
Sir Oswald Davenant was not a handsome man. There was a certain virility about the large, roughly-hewn features and the forehead was broad and gave a promise of intellect, but there was a hint of weakness about the lower part of the face, in the lines of the mouth and the slightly receding chin. The deep-set eyes were hidden under heavy shades.
As Maisie spoke he half rose and held out his hand in an uncertain, tentative fashion.
“This is a very unceremonious introduction, Miss Martin,” he said with a melancholy smile. “But I have heard so much about you from Maisie that I can hardly feel we are strangers. You have quite won the child’s heart.”
“You are very kind, Sir Oswald. Yes, Maisie and I are quite good friends,” Miss Martin answered sedately as she lightly touched his proffered hand. “I understand you wish me to do some writing for you this morning.”
Sir Oswald sank back heavily in his chair.
“If you will be so kind,” he said wearily. “There is quite an accumulation over there. They should be stacked up in the rack.”
He waited, one brown hand on the arm of his chair, while the governess went towards the table. He could hear her rustling among his papers and the sound fretted him almost past endurance. He hated to think that his correspondence was in the hands of a strange woman, and yet he could not help himself. Ever since Sybil went away he had been dependent on his man, and Perkins, though devoted to his master and excellent in his place, had his own notions both as to pronunciation and spelling and these had led to endless mistakes. In self-defence Sir Oswald had been obliged to fall back on the governess, who would at least be able to write decent English, he said to himself impatiently.
At last Miss Martin came back. “I have them all in order, I think, Sir Oswald,” she said. “Some of them have been waiting several days, I see. If you will allow me I will read them to you, and make a note of the reply you wish sent.”
“I shall be much obliged if you will,” Sir Oswald said politely.
Maisie curled herself up on the rug at his feet. She was used to being quiet for hours when her father was absorbed in his troubles and disinclined to talk.
Miss Martin read out the letters in a clear, distinct voice. If it trembled occasionally, neither of her hearers noticed it.
Sir Oswald’s replies were of the shortest. Most of his correspondence was of a business nature; one letter was redolent of perfume, breathed ardent wishes for his recovery, and spoke of the writer’s speedy return. It was signed “Your affectionate cousin, Sybil Lorrimer.”
Sir Oswald frowned when he heard it. Then he held out his hand.
“We will leave that for the present,” he said as he put it in his pocket.
When she had finished, the governess rose.
“Now can I read to you, Sir Oswald? The papers, or a book?”
“Thanks, you are very good,” Sir Oswald said wearily. “Yes, please, the papers. I may as well know what is going on in the world, even if I can take no share in it. As for books, I don’t care for them. Unless I get hold of a good detective story. The tracing out of crime always has a curious fascination for me.”
“How horrible!” The words seemed to burst from Miss Martin without her own volition. “I— I beg your pardon,” she added, flushing. “I ought not to have said that, I—”
“I’m sure I don’t know why you shouldn’t,” Sir Oswald said carelessly. “I don’t expect everybody to share my opinions. I have sometimes thought that if I had been a younger son I should have been one of those police Johnnies myself. There was a case I was tremendously interested in last year. ‘The Carlyn Wood Mystery’ it was called in the papers. I wonder whether you remember it? But perhaps you were in India?”
“I—I think I remember it.” Miss Martin’s voice was trembling. She put one hand out and caught at the table beside her.
“A gamekeeper’s wife murdered her husband and managed to make good her escape,” Sir Oswald went on conversationally. “I was interested in it for two reasons, first because young Frank Carlyn was my fag at Eton, though I have seen nothing of him since, and secondly because of the mystery attaching to the unfortunate couple, the gamekeeper and his wife.”
He paused as if waiting for some rejoinder, but the governess did not speak. The pallor of her cheeks had spread; now even her lips were white.
After a minute Sir Oswald went on:
“It was very odd altogether. It was said the wife, at any rate, belonged by birth to a superior position, but it was never really found out who either of them was. The man who gave Winter his reference was dead, and nothing could be discovered of the gamekeeper’s career before he came to Mr. Carlyn. As for the wife, she seemed to vanish into thin air. A great many people appeared to sympathize with her, but I can’t say I did. I should be delighted to hear of her capture. But I won’t inflict any more horrors on you, Miss Martin”—for the governess had given a shiver of disgust and drawn a long breath that told its own story of distaste. “The Times leading articles, if you would be so good,” he concluded, his momentary flash of interest dying out.
Miss Martin read very well, there could be no doubt of that. Her enunciation was clear and refined, the very opposite of Perkin’s. Nevertheless she had only been reading a short time when Sir Oswald emitted an impatient sigh and began to stir about restlessly.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Martin,” he said when she stopped. “You will think me an awful boor, but the fact is I can’t get up any interest in any of these things. I was always an outdoor sort of man, don’t you know! Thank you very much all the same.”
Maisie uncurled herself and sprang up.
“Why don’t you come out now, daddy?” she cried excitedly. “I am going to take Miss Martin to see the Wishing Well. And I will lead you, daddy, and Miss Martin will help. Do come!”
Sir Oswald gave a short, hard laugh. “You are promising a good deal for Miss Martin, childie. Looking after a blind man isn’t such pleasant work. I assure you Perkins finds it no easy task.”
“Oh, but we should like to help you, Maisie and I,” Elizabeth Martin said impulsively. All the primness had gone out of her voice now, it was tremulous, soft, with a little quiver of pity running through.
Sir Oswald looked undecided. The air from the open window was blowing upon him, it felt warm and balmy, the call of the spring was upon him. His enforced inaction, the confinement indoors, were irksome to him. Yet he seemed to have none of the resources of blind folks. He lived in the hope of the restoration of sight which the doctors promised him. It was scarcely worth while to exert himself, when, as he expected, his period of idleness would soon be over. In the meanwhile he hated being driven; walking, which he had previously loved, was a very different affair when it could only be undertaken with the aid of Perkins’s arm. It often ended in Sir Oswald’s remaining in the house for days, except for a little stroll with Maisie in the grounds immediately in front of the house. But to-day the mention of the Wishing Well called up memories of his boyish days, of the time when he had believed that if you wished as you drank from the old well your wish was certainly granted. A longing came over him for the green freshness of the woods, for a draught of the ice-cold water.
“If you will really be so good, Miss Martin,” he said at last.
Maisie clapped her hands with delight. Sir Oswald scarcely had time to change his mind, for it did not take either Miss Martin or her charge long to get ready and they all set off down the drive together.
Maisie held her father’s hand and guided him, Miss Martin keeping a watchful eye on both. As far as the lodge it was familiar ground to Sir Oswald, he managed fairly well, but once inside the Fount Wood where the Wishing Well was situated it was a very different matter. The soft, mossy path was worn and uneven; bare old tree roots stretched across it, long outstanding branches caught the passers by. Sir Oswald stumbled more than once.
Elizabeth Martin came to his right side. “Let me help you, Sir Oswald, as well as Maisie.” She drew his arm through hers, and walked carefully, guiding him past the difficult bits.
Sir Oswald was inwardly calling himself a fool for coming. Yet as his hand rested on the governess’s rounded arm, as she talked quietly of the scenery of which she caught glimpses through the openings in the trees, he grew interested in identifying the various landmarks from her descriptions. It was curious, too, how she seemed to divine just what he would like to know—how the young larches were doing at the end of the plantation, and how the wood looked where they were thinning out the timber. He grew quite interested at last, her answers were so intelligent, so unlike Perkins, “Getting a bit thin like, Sir Oswald,” or “Looking fresh like, Sir Oswald.”
He was surprised to find how short the walk had seemed when they reached the Wishing Well. They all sat down on the big flat boulders near the mouth. But out of doors Maisie was never quiet long. She began to dance about, dipping her little hands in the clear, limpid water.
“You must drink, Miss Martin,” she ordered excitedly. “And you must wish as you drink. Then if you don’t tell anybody it’s sure to be granted.”
The governess smilingly obeyed Maisie’s instructions to make a hollow of her palm and stooped towards the well. Then as she bent her head her glasses tipped forward, she caught ineffectually at them, and they fell off on to the moss at her feet. She uttered a quick exclamation of dismay as she reached after them and the water in her hand splashed unheeded down her dress.
Maisie cried out in vexation. “There, you have spilt the water, Miss Martin, and it means bad luck, for you can’t draw water from the well twice in one day, so now you can’t wish. And all because of those stupid, old spectacles. And you look ever so much nicer without them. She has such pretty grey eyes, daddy, just like Mummy’s.”
“Maisie, do you know that you haven’t wished yourself yet?” Sir Oswald interrupted. “Come, little girl, you must make haste, I can’t stay here too long.”
Maisie darted off. Her quickened breathing told Sir Oswald that Miss Martin was near.
“It was strange that Maisie should say your eyes were like her mother’s,” he said in a low tone. “For I have thought once or twice this afternoon that your voice reminded me of hers—my wife’s— I have wondered whether there might be any relationship?”
“Quite impossible,” Miss Martin said coldly. “I have no relations.” Her hands were clasping one another tightly, the fingers were interlacing themselves.
“Still, perhaps—” Sir Oswald was beginning when there was an interruption.
Down the mossy path by which they had come a dainty figure was tripping lightly.
With a cry Maisie sprang forward. “Cousin Sybil!”
Miss Lorrimer’s golden hair shone in the sunlight, her pretty red lips were smiling as her big, blue eyes glanced round the little group.
“Mrs. Barnes at the lodge told me you had come this way,” she said as she kissed Maisie and let her hand rest on Sir Oswald’s shoulder. “So I thought I would come after you. I am so glad I did. And now, Maisie,” her eyes resting questioningly on the stranger, a shade of harshness creeping into the honeyed tones, “this lady I suppose is your new governess, Miss Martin.”