The mill house mystery E-Book

Florence Warden

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The July sun was pouring floods of blinding, glaring light upon the town of Dourville, which, lying in a great chasm between two high white lines of cliff, and straggling under the foot of them to east and west, bears witness, in its massive castle, and in its old relics of stone buildings among the commonplace iron frames and plate-glass windows of the new, to the notable part it has taken in England’s history.
The long straight road that goes northwards up through the town and out of the town, rising, at first by slow degrees, and latterly by a steep ascent, to a point from which one can look down upon town and sea, soon leaves small shops for queer old-fashioned rows of houses; and these in their turn give place to roomy old residences of greater pretension.
At the back of one of these, a sombre, plain building, roomy rather than dignified, there stretches a splendid expanse of garden and pleasaunce, where a stream runs among meadows and lawns in a direct line towards the sea.
This stream once supplied the power that worked a great paper-mill, which was the foundation of the prosperity of the Hadlow family. But three generations back, the reigning Hadlow, more enterprising than his predecessors, had speculated outside his little world, had prospered, and finally blossomed into the great philanthropist, whose magnificent endowment of certain royal charities had earned him a baronetcy.

Leseprobe

THE MILL HOUSE MYSTERY

BY FLORENCE WARDEN

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385745882

CONTENTS.

I. AN ACCIDENT

II. RHODA PEMBURY’S DISCOVERY

III. TEN YEARS AFTER

IV. RHODA RETURNS TO MILL-HOUSE

V. LADY SARAH’S RECOGNITION

VI. JACK ROTHERFIELD

VII. THE SCARRED HAND

VIII. THE MISSING SNUFF-BOXES

IX. RHODA’S WATCHFULNESS

X. THE STOLEN “ROMNEY”

XI. THE PICTURE RECOVERED

XII. LADY SARAH’S DUPLICITY

XIII. SIR ROBERT SEEKS ADVICE

XIV. JACK ROTHERFIELD’S EFFRONTERY

XV. SELF-ACCUSATIONS

XVI. A FRUSTRATED ELOPEMENT

XVII. SIR ROBERT’S PLANS

XVIII. THE COMPANION’S ORDEAL

XIX. OTHERWISE THAN INTENDED

XX. SIR ROBERT’S SECRET

THE MILL HOUSE MYSTERY

CHAPTER I.AN ACCIDENT

The July sun was pouring floods of blinding, glaring light upon the town of Dourville, which, lying in a great chasm between two high white lines of cliff, and straggling under the foot of them to east and west, bears witness, in its massive castle, and in its old relics of stone buildings among the commonplace iron frames and plate-glass windows of the new, to the notable part it has taken in England’s history.

The long straight road that goes northwards up through the town and out of the town, rising, at first by slow degrees, and latterly by a steep ascent, to a point from which one can look down upon town and sea, soon leaves small shops for queer old-fashioned rows of houses; and these in their turn give place to roomy old residences of greater pretension.

At the back of one of these, a sombre, plain building, roomy rather than dignified, there stretches a splendid expanse of garden and pleasaunce, where a stream runs among meadows and lawns in a direct line towards the sea.

This stream once supplied the power that worked a great paper-mill, which was the foundation of the prosperity of the Hadlow family. But three generations back, the reigning Hadlow, more enterprising than his predecessors, had speculated outside his little world, had prospered, and finally blossomed into the great philanthropist, whose magnificent endowment of certain royal charities had earned him a baronetcy.

Rich as the family had grown, the Hadlows clung to the old nest with a pertinacity which had in it something of dignity; and only the condition in which the grounds were kept, nothing in the appearance of the house itself, would have betrayed that now, under the third baronet, the place was the property of a man of great wealth.

The trees grew thickly within the high dark wall that shut the grounds in from the road. And under their shade Sir Robert Hadlow, in a light linen suit and shady planter’s hat, could saunter at his ease in the heat of the day. A man of middle height, slight and almost boyish in figure, with a close-trimmed dark beard and large, mild, grey eyes, Sir Robert Hadlow, at thirty years of age, looked rather older by reason of the quiet gravity of his manners and the leisurely dignity of his movements.

A man of leisure, he had devoted himself early and enthusiastically to the study of the antiquities of the neighbourhood in which he was born; and something of the far-away look of the student softened and mellowed the expression of his eyes, and gave a certain measured dignity to his gait.

Stopping from time to time to peep between the branches of the lilac-bushes at the stream as it sparkled in the bright sunlight beyond, he was sauntering towards the house, when a succession of piercing screams, followed by the shouts of men, reached his ears from the road outside.

“Stop her!” “Look out!” “She’ll be killed!”

These, among others, were the cries which came to Sir Robert’s ears as he hurriedly made his way to one of the wooden doors in the high wall, and inserting into the lock his own private key, let himself through into the public street.

Looking up the road, to the left, he saw the figure of a woman, in a light dress, coming swiftly down the hill on a bicycle, of which it was evident that she had lost control. A glance to the right showed him a traction engine coming slowly up the hill with a couple of waggons trailing behind it, and the confused cries of the bystanders called his attention to the fact that it was a collision between this and the bicycle which they all feared.

Stepping forward into the road, and watching the light machine vigilantly as it came quickly down upon him, Sir Robert prepared for his rather risky attempt to save the woman from her danger. As the bicycle reached him he turned to run with it down the hill, at the same time seizing the handlebar with so much dexterity that he neither stopped the machine nor threw off its rider.

The woman was muttering incoherent thanks in a faint voice, and Sir Robert became suddenly conscious that there was a fresh danger to be averted.

“Keep your head. Steady! Hold tight! You’re all right,” he cried as he still ran with the bicycle, upon which he was now acting as a brake.

But his words fell on ears that scarcely heard; and before he could bring the machine absolutely to a standstill, when he was within three or four yards of the traction-engine, which had been stopped, the rider fell to the ground with a moan.

There was a crowd round the group already, and there were shrieking women and curious men streaming towards the spot, where Sir Robert, with an air of authority, was giving directions to such of the more intelligent among the crowd as seemed likely to be of use in the emergency. Thus, he sent one man for a doctor and another for his own servants, while he himself knelt down by the roadside, and raised the unconscious victim of the accident.

She had struck her head against the kerb-stone, and one side of it was cut and bleeding.

“Poor child! She isn’t dead. She’ll be all right presently,” said Sir Robert, answering the alarmed comments of the women who pressed round him. “I’m going to have her taken into my house, where the doctor will see her.”

The accident had occurred within twenty yards of the entrance to Sir Robert’s house, and five minutes later the baronet and his butler were carrying the unconscious girl under the little portico and up the staircase into a pleasant room at the back of the house, overlooking the grounds and the flowing stream.

A couple of children, a boy and a girl, the orphaned nephew and niece of Sir Robert and permanent members of his household, watched the arrival from the upper staircase with eager interest.

“Look at the blood, Minnie!” observed the boy, in an awestruck whisper. “And look at her eyes—all shut!” he added with thrilling interest.

The girl, younger and more tender-hearted, began to cry.

“She’s dead!” sobbed she. “Oh, George, don’t yook at her. She’s been killded.”

“No, she hasn’t,” said he sturdily. “Uncle Robert won’t let her die.”

Their hissing whispers had by this time attracted attention, and Bessie, the old family nurse in whose charge they were, beckoned to them from below with an austere frown.

“If you don’t both go back into the nursery this minute——”

There was no need to say more: in an instant the scampering of small feet, followed by the banging of an upper door, showed that the young people, who were known in the household as The Terrors, were for the moment quelled.

In the meantime the victim of the accident had been laid upon a bed in a darkened room, and Bessie and her master were looking at her with sympathetic interest.

“Why, the poor dear’s but a lass, sir,” said the sympathetic Bessie, as she loosened the girl’s clothes and peered keenly into the pale face.

“Yes, not more than eighteen or nineteen, I should think,” said Sir Robert. “She had a narrow escape. Search her clothes, Bessie, for some indication as to her name and address. Her people will be alarmed about her, whoever she is, and whoever they may be.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have a hunt as soon as the doctor’s here.”

She had not to wait long. And by the time the doctor had come, examined the patient, and reported that the victim was suffering from concussion of the brain and must be kept quiet, that she had sustained an injury to the right wrist and severe bruises, the old nurse had made a search of the girl’s pockets, and had discovered an opened letter in one of them directed to “Miss Rhoda Pembury” at an address in Deal.

This was enough for Sir Robert, who telegraphed at once to the address, to the name of Pembury, to the effect that Miss Rhoda had met with a slight accident, but that she was safe and going on well.

Within a couple of hours the girl’s father and mother had arrived at the Mill-house, and proved to be a London physician and his wife, who were staying at Deal with their family, of whom Rhoda was the eldest.

They were deeply grateful to Sir Robert, who insisted that they should leave their daughter where she was until she was fully recovered, a suggestion which poor Mrs. Pembury, the harassed mother of half a dozen children, gratefully accepted, it being arranged that Dr. Pembury should cycle over every day to see how his daughter was getting on.

Within a few days Rhoda, very pale still, and with deep dark lines under her large, plaintive, blue eyes, was sitting at the window of the room that had been assigned to her, permitted for the first time to leave her bed.

She was a tall, thin slip of a girl, not yet fully developed, but languid and almost sickly of appearance by reason of the rapidity of her recent growth. At seventeen she was five feet seven inches in height, with a lean, fair-skinned face, a mass of pale golden hair that looked as if a silver veil had been thrown over it, and a look of listlessness that told of weakly health.

She confessed to Bessie that she had only had her hair “up” within the last month, and that, in her present enfeebled condition, she preferred to leave it loose again, tied with a black ribbon, to the fatigue of doing it herself, or even of having it done for her.

So that she looked like a child as she sat at the open window, with her white dressing-gown on, and her head thrown back against the pillows provided for her.

In the garden below were two figures, upon whom her attention was fixed with interest so deep that Bessie watched her in furtive surprise, wondering at the look of vivid excitement which was making the blue eyes glow and the white skin flush.

The old nurse looked out, and saw that the objects of the girl’s interest were Sir Robert Hadlow, sauntering in the grounds in his linen coat and broad-brimmed hat, and his handsome young ward, Jack Rotherfield, a tall, well-made man of two and twenty, whose dark-skinned, beardless face and curly black hair and dark eyes had earned him the reputation of the handsomest man in Kent.

The expression upon the girl’s face, as she gazed out at the two men, was so unmistakably one of admiration of the most vivid kind, that Nurse Bessie smiled indulgently.

“A good-looking fellow, isn’t he?” she said with a nod in the direction of the two figures.

To her surprise, the girl turned towards her with a look of ecstasy in her thin face.

“Good-looking!” she echoed in an awestruck tone. “Oh, don’t call him that! He’s so much more than that! It seems to me,” she added, in a low voice, as again her eyes wandered in the direction of the two gentlemen, “that I’ve never seen, no, and never even imagined, any face either so handsome or—so—noble. It’s because he’s so good, so much better and greater than other men that he is so handsome.”

The old nurse sat amazed and perplexed by this enthusiasm, which exceeded so far even her own warmth of admiration. She did not dare to smile, although the girl’s tone was so outrageously, childishly vehement as to throw her into considerable astonishment.

“Well, Mr. Rotherfield is generally thought to be nice-looking,” she said, “but I don’t know as he’s all you take him for.”

The girl’s fair face, out of which the glow of colour brought by her enthusiasm had already faded a little, looked at her with a frown of slight perplexity.

“Mr. Rotherfield? Who is that?” she asked.

Old Bessie stared.

“Why, the gentleman you’ve admired so much, the young gentleman that’s walking with Sir Robert. That’s his ward, Mr. Rotherfield.”

A deeper flush than had yet appeared in Rhoda’s face now spread quickly over it, and she lowered her eyelids quickly.

“I didn’t notice him,” she said. “I was speaking about Sir Robert.”

The old nurse uttered a low cry of surprise.

Then a smile, indulgent, amused, appeared on her face.

“Well, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him called so nice-looking,” she said. “He’s very well, of course, and he’s got a good face, and a nice face, but I’ve never heard tell he was considered handsome.”

The girl looked up again, the most innocent surprise in every feature.

“Not handsome!” she said under her breath. “Why, it seems to me I never saw any face so—so beautiful! He’s like a picture, not like any man I ever saw before. To look at him makes me feel humiliated at the thought that I should have been the means of causing him to hurt himself, and yet it makes me proud too to think that he should have done what he did for me!”

Beginning timidly, the girl grew more and more enthusiastic as she went on, till she ended with fire in her blue eyes, and sat with her lips parted in a sort of ecstasy, gazing out of the window at the figure of the wholly unconscious gentleman who was now sauntering back towards the house.

Sir Robert, who had hurt his arm in his efforts to stop the runaway bicycle, carried it in a sling, and Rhoda’s eyes softened and filled with tears as she noted the fact.

The old nurse’s face began to grow prim.

“You mustn’t let Lady Sarah hear you speaking so admiring of her intended, or she’ll be jealous,” said she.

A sudden shadow passed over the girl’s face.

“Lady Sarah! Who is she?” she asked quickly, in a stifled voice.

Bessie peered at her rather anxiously.

“Dear, dear, miss, you mustn’t get so excited about it, or I shall feel I didn’t ought to have told you so much,” she said.

A faint, mechanical smile appeared on Rhoda’s face.

“Nonsense,” she said. “Of course I’m not excited, only interested. Who is Lady Sarah?”

The nurse hesitated a moment, but seeing that a red spot was beginning to burn in each of the invalid’s cheeks, she decided that it would be better to tell her what she wanted and have done with it.

“Lady Sarah,” she said, gravely and deliberately, hoping that the style and title of the persons she was about to mention would duly impress her hearer, “is the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Eridge, and she is engaged to be married to Sir Robert Hadlow, who is madly in love with her.”

A look of dismay, so ingenuous, so complete as to be touching, appeared on Rhoda’s face. Then she glanced quickly at the nurse, reddened deeply, and subduing her feelings, whatever those might be, answered in a matter-of-fact tone, in words which surprised Bessie.

“The Marquis of Eridge! Oh, yes, I know. He was made bankrupt two years ago, and he has four of the most beautiful daughters possible.”

Bessie was taken aback by the completeness of the girl’s information.

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about the Marquis’s affairs,” she said, somewhat stiffly. “But a Marquis is a Marquis, and Lady Sarah is a most beautiful young lady. And Sir Robert is crazy about her, and to look at her it’s no wonder. But you’ll see her for yourself, I dare say, before you go away. She lives up in the Vale, at the Priory, and she and Lady Eridge are here most days when Sir Robert doesn’t go to the Priory.”

Rhoda bent her head without speaking. And the nurse, though she reproached herself for the feeling and said to herself that it was ‘rubbish,’ felt a momentary wonder whether it would not have been better for Sir Robert, with his studious habits and his grave demeanour, to have loved an earnest, simple little girl like the blue-eyed, fair-haired Rhoda with the devotion in her eyes, rather than the brilliant and slightly disturbing creature whom he had chosen for his wife.

CHAPTER II.RHODA PEMBURY’S DISCOVERY

The day after this conversation with Bessie, Rhoda was allowed downstairs for the first time. Sir Robert was kindness itself to her, though he was rather puzzled by the extreme reserve and timidity of the girl whose life he had saved, never guessing, in his masculine obtuseness, at the sentimental cause of her rather perplexing demeanour.

Jack Rotherfield, who was staying with his guardian, was delighted to welcome a new and pretty guest, and at once proceeded to exert himself to amuse and interest the convalescent, so that old Bessie used to smile demurely when she came into the room where the two young people would be sitting together, Rhoda gentle and rather listless, Jack energetically trying to rouse her from the somewhat abstracted state in which she still remained.

Rhoda laughed at the idea of falling in love with Jack, a possibility which Bessie plainly foresaw and made no scruple about mentioning.

“He’s very nice,” she said, “and, I suppose, very good-looking. But I don’t like him as much as I ought to do, considering how kind he is. He always seems to me to be saying things to me which he must have said before.”

Bessie looked surprised.

“Lor, miss, that’s not a bad guess, I’m afraid, if it is a guess,” she admitted. “Mr. Jack is so nice-looking, and so merry and bright, that the young ladies do make a fuss of him. Even Lady Sarah,” she added in a rather lower tone.

A deep flush at once overspread Rhoda’s face.

“I should hardly think,” she said quite tartly, “that a girl who had the good fortune to be liked by Sir Robert would care much for Mr. Rotherfield.”

Bessie looked askance at her, but said nothing more on the subject, until she presently remarked in a rather dry tone that Lady Sarah was coming that afternoon, with her mother and one of her married sisters, to play tennis and to have tea in the grounds.

Rhoda was excited by the news. She was exceedingly anxious to see the woman with whom Sir Robert was in love, and Bessie noted the trembling of her hands and the feverish light in her eyes as she dressed to go downstairs.

Lady Sarah Speldhurst proved to be a very fascinating and lovely little person. Not nearly so tall as Rhoda herself, nor with the advantage of so good a figure as the younger girl, she was, at three and twenty, mistress of all the arts by which a pretty young woman makes the best of herself. Dark-eyed, with a brilliant complexion, and with masses of wavy dark brown hair, she dressed in light colours for choice, and was wearing, on this occasion, a tight-fitting lace dress of creamy tint over a slip of lemon colour, and a big black hat with black and white ostrich feathers.

“Sir Robert don’t know what a lady’s dress bill means—yet,” remarked Bessie shrewdly, when she looked out and saw Lady Sarah in the garden.

“What an odd dress to play tennis in!” was Rhoda’s matter-of-fact comment.

Bessie smiled.

“She don’t play tennis much herself. Her ladyship likes the sitting about with a racquet in her hand, and the cakes and the ices, better than running in the sun and getting her face red,” she said.

Rhoda frowned a little. Pretty as Lady Sarah was, the younger girl felt that a better, a more sincere and noble-natured person than Lady Sarah appeared to be would have been a better match for the generous and good Sir Robert who was her own idol. She went downstairs slowly, resented the quick and almost supercilious manner in which Lady Sarah appeared to sum her up at a glance while shaking hands, and decided angrily that Sir Robert was throwing himself away.

The baronet himself, however, was evidently by no means of the same way of thinking. There was adoration in his mild grey eyes as he watched the brilliant little brunette, there was tenderness in the tone of his voice as he spoke to her, and it was abundantly clear that his infatuation was complete.

Jack Rotherfield, meanwhile, was less attentive to Rhoda than he had been before the appearance of Lady Sarah. Rhoda did not mind this, but she remarked it, and, sitting silent for the most part, she noticed a good deal more, as the afternoon wore on, that might have escaped the notice of a less observant or more talkative person.

For one thing she saw, and felt ashamed of seeing, that something like a secret understanding existed between Jack Rotherfield and Lady Sarah; their eyes would meet with a sudden look of sympathy or mutual amusement from time to time, as, for instance, when Sir Robert declared that nothing would induce him to replace the old furniture and fittings of the house for more modern ones.

Rhoda felt ashamed of herself for thinking that it looked as if Lady Sarah had already discussed that very subject with Sir Robert’s ward, and in a manner not very sympathetic with the views of her future husband.

Indeed it was clear to the most careless eyes that there was a great gulf between the tastes of the Marquis’s lovely daughter, with her French toilette and her brilliant if scarcely sincere manners, and steady-going, quiet Sir Robert Hadlow with his grave demeanour and quiet habits.

Rhoda found herself wondering what sort of a household theirs would be, and which of the two would finally get the upper hand, as it was plain that, in such an ill-assorted couple, one or other must eventually do.

It seemed natural to suppose it would be the little, wilful, spoilt beauty, as it was easy to see she was not in love with Sir Robert, who, by keeping her head, would become the arbiter of the household destinies. The baronet seemed, indeed, to be like wax in her hands; and he was far too much in love to see that the sweet looks and pretty smiles, the little words of tenderness, and the gestures of caressing cajolery, were dictated by anything less than love equal to his own.

The rest of the party soon went into the grounds, and Rhoda, who was not yet allowed to exert herself much, was left alone in the house. She sat near the window, watching the pretty figures of the ladies in their light dresses as they flitted over the tennis-lawn, like gay butterflies against the background of soft greenery, when she heard a stealthy footstep behind her, and looking round, saw the Terrors, George and Minnie Mallory, crouching close to her chair.

“When did you come in?” asked Rhoda quickly. “I didn’t hear you.”

The two children chuckled.

“Nobody never does hear us,” said Minnie, who was a long-legged, short-frocked imp of six years of age. “We don’t never let ’em hear us,” she added thoughtfully.

“But that’s not right. It’s like eavesdropping,” said Rhoda solemnly.

George nodded gravely.

“It doesn’t matter for us, ’cos we’re only children,” said he with a shrewd air. “And we often hear things that we like to hear. We heard Lady Sarah talking to Jack the other day, and saying how hard it was for her to have to marry a rich man, ’cos rich men are always what you don’t like.”

Rhoda uttered a sort of gasp. Then she recovered herself, and scolded the boy.

“It’s very naughty to listen,” she said. “And very ungentlemanly too. What would your uncle, who’s always so good and kind to you, say if he thought his niece and nephew were not behaving like a lady and gentleman?”

George was not abashed.

“I’ll behave like a gentleman when I grow up,” he said reflectively. “I don’t see the good of beginning too soon. It’s nicer to do as we like and hear what we want to.”

The comical gravity with which he spoke suddenly made Rhoda want to laugh, so she was silent for a moment, and the children took advantage of this to steal away out of the room, no doubt to follow their favourite dubious occupations elsewhere.

But Rhoda did not heed them. She was filled with a terrible thought. Her hero, the man she worshipped as the ideal of all that was noble and worthy, was being deceived, grossly deceived, by the woman he passionately loved. She had no doubt at all that the words reported by the mischievous boy had really been uttered by Lady Sarah, in confidential talk to Jack Rotherfield, between whom and herself it was plain that an active flirtation was still going on.

Her heart was torn by the thought that her hero, instead of being loved as he deserved to be loved, was being married for his money alone by the woman he worshipped. If only he could learn the truth before it was too late!

But how?

She could not tell him what she knew or guessed, and even if she could, he would not believe her.

What could she do?

Staying day by day under the same roof with Sir Robert, she had fallen more and more completely under the influence of his great kindness and gentleness, of the nature that was ever self-sacrificing, ever considerate for others, yet with a certain manliness and firmness that made Rhoda wonder what he would be like if he should ever find out that those he loved and trusted had deceived him.

She was still torn with her fears on his account when the baronet came in, racquet in hand, and sitting down beside her, asked her kindly how she felt.

The girl, pale and trembling, looked into his gentle, kindly face, and the words that came to her lips refused to come further.

He smiled at her, and patted her hand.

“You’ve been overtiring yourself. I shan’t let you come downstairs to-morrow,” he said.

Rhoda struggled to regain her self-command and answered steadily:

“I must come down to-morrow, Sir Robert, for I must go back home.”

“You are tired of us? That you are in such a hurry to get away?”

She shook her head.

“You are the best and the kindest people I’ve ever met,” she said tremulously. “But I want to go back.”

He looked at her keenly.

“You have something on your mind,” said he.

Rhoda rose suddenly to her feet. Looking down upon him with eyes that blazed, she said hoarsely:

“Yes. I want to warn you. Find out, Sir Robert, whether you are loved as you deserve to be loved. That’s all.”

The baronet rose, frowning and displeased. She saw that he looked upon her words as an impertinence, and she was cut to the heart.

Faltering, she stammered out an incoherent apology. Sir Robert looked at her coldly.

“There is nothing to apologise for,” he said gravely. “I’m sure you mean well. I was taken by surprise, that’s all.”

Rhoda felt that the room was spinning round her. She knew his danger, and she saw that she was helpless to save him. There was only one thing to be done; she must go away. She could not stay another day now that she had offended him, nor could she watch the progress of the harm she could not prevent.

On the pretext of fatigue, she staggered upstairs, assisted by Sir Robert, as far as the foot of the staircase, where she gently refused further help.

Rhoda had never seen the kindly Sir Robert angry before, and the effect his displeasure had upon her was overwhelming. She, however, was not to be the only person to offend him that day, for Bessie, who came in with a little tray with the wing of a chicken for the convalescent, brought with her the news that Sir Robert was gravely displeased with his old servant, Langton, to whom he had given notice to leave him.

“I don’t know the rights of it,” went on Bessie, “and I don’t want to gossip. But it’s thought Langton told Sir Robert something he didn’t want to hear, and didn’t believe, and this is the consequences!”

Rhoda listened in distressed silence. Had the faithful servant dared to tell his master something that he had seen? Something that concerned Lady Sarah and Jack Rotherfield? She would not condescend to gossip with Bessie about it, but when she was alone, she left her repast almost untasted, and, attracted by a soft murmur of voices that came like a distant whisper through the open window, crossed the floor and looked out, and saw, between the branches of the trees, two figures sauntering along the avenue that ran inside the outer wall of the grounds.

She had no difficulty in recognising them, and when, before they had gone many steps, they stopped and the man put his arm round the girl and kissed her, Rhoda knew that it was Jack Rotherfield whom she had seen kissing the betrothed wife of his guardian.

Rhoda could bear no more; turning from the window, giddy and almost sick with grief and horror, she resolved to leave the house that very night. She felt that she could not meet the eyes of the baronet, his fiancée, or Jack Rotherfield again.

The evening seemed a long one; she had to go to bed, to avoid exciting suspicion as to her intention, which was to steal out of the house when everybody else was asleep. But before retiring she witnessed a sight that set her thinking. For after dinner Sir Robert walked with Lady Sarah up and down the terrace close under Rhoda’s window, and the girl fancied, both by the affectionate manner in which they smiled at each other, and by the defiant half-glances which the baronet cast stealthily up towards her window, that he had told his fiancée of the doubts expressed as to her sincerity, and that Lady Sarah had set him quite at rest upon that score.