The Hollow of Her Hand Part 9

"Yes. I shall not call her until you have gone."

"May I enquire--"

"A girl I met recently--an English girl," said she succinctly, and forthwith changed the subject. "There are a few necessary details that must be attended to, Mr. Carroll. That is why I sent for you at this early hour. Mr. Leslie Wrandall will take charge--Ah!" she straightened up suddenly. "What a farce it is going to be!"

Half an hour later he departed, to rejoin her at eleven o'clock, when the reporters were to be expected. He was to do the talking for her. While he was there, Leslie Wrandall called her up on the telephone. Hearing but one side of the rather prolonged conversation, he was filled with wonder at the tactful way in which she met and parried the inevitable questions and suggestions coming from her horror-struck brother-in-law. Without the slightest trace of offensiveness in her manner, she gave Leslie to understand that the final obsequies must be conducted in the home of his parents, to whom once more her husband belonged, and that she would abide by all arrangements his family elected to make. Mr. Carroll surmised from the trend of conversation that young Wrandall was about to leave for the scene of the tragedy, and that the house was in a state of unspeakable distress. The lawyer smiled rather grimly to himself as he turned to look out of the window. He did not have to be told that Challis was the idol of the family, and that, so far as they were concerned, he could do no wrong!

After his departure, Mrs. Wrandall gently opened the bedroom door and was surprised to find the girl wide-awake, resting on one elbow, her staring eyes fastened on the newspaper that topped the pile on the chair.

Catching sight of Mrs. Wrandall she pointed to the paper with a trembling hand and cried out, in a voice full of horror:

"Did you place them there for me to read? Who was with you in the other room just now? Was it some one about the--some one looking for me? Speak! Please tell me. I heard a man's voice--"

The other crossed quickly to her side.

"Don't be alarmed. It was my lawyer. There is nothing to fear--at present. Yes, I left the papers there for you to see. You can see what a sensation it has caused. Challis Wrandall was one of the most widely known men in New York. But I suppose you know that without my telling you."

The girl sank back with a groan. "My G.o.d, what have I done? What will come of it all?"

"I wish I could answer that question," said the other, taking the girl's hand in hers. Both were trembling. After an instant's hesitation, she laid her other hand on the dark, dishevelled hair of the wild-eyed creature, who still continued to stare at the headlines. "I am quite sure they will not look for you here, or in my home."

"In your home?"

"You are to go with me. I have thought it all over. It is the only way. Come, I must ask you to pull yourself together. Get up at once, and dress. Here are the things you are to wear." She indicated the orderly pile of garments with a wave of her hand.

Slowly the girl crept out of bed, confused, bewildered, stunned.

"Where are my own things? I--I cannot accept these. Pray give me my own--"

Mrs. Wrandall checked her.

"You must obey me, if you expect me to help you. Don't you understand that I have had a--a bereavement? I cannot wear these things now.

They are useless to me. But we will speak of all that later on.

Come, be quick; I will help you to dress. First, go to the telephone and ask them to send a waiter to--these rooms. We must have something to eat. Please do as I tell you."

Standing before her benefactress, her fingers fumbling impotently at the neck of the night-dress, the girl still continued to stare dumbly into the calm, dark eyes before her.

"You are so good. I--I--"

"Let me help you," interrupted the other, deliberately setting about to remove the night-dress. The girl caught it up as it slipped from her shoulders, a warm flush suffusing her face, a shamed look springing into her eyes.

"Thank you, I can--get on very well. I only wanted to ask you a question. It has been on my mind, waking and sleeping. Can you tell me anything about--do you know his wife?"

The question was so abrupt, so startling that Mrs. Wrandall uttered a sharp little cry. For a moment she could not reply.

"I am so sorry, so desperately sorry for her," added the girl plaintively.

"I know her," the other managed to say with an effort.

"If I had only known that he had a wife--" began the girl bitterly, almost angrily.

Mrs. Wrandall grasped her by the arm. "You did not know that he had a wife?" she cried.

The girl's eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce fire in their depths.

"G.o.d in heaven, no! I did not know it until--Oh, I can't speak of it! Why should I tell you about it? Why should you be interested in hearing it?"

Mrs. Wrandall drew back and regarded the girl's set, unhappy face.

There was a curious light in her eyes that escaped the other's notice,--a light that would have puzzled her not a little.

"But you WILL tell me--EVERYTHING--a little later," she said, strangely calm. "Not now, but,--before many hours have pa.s.sed. First of all, you must tell me who you are, where you live,--everything except what happened in Burton's Inn. I don't want to hear that at present--perhaps never. Yes, on second thoughts, I will say NEVER!

You are never to tell me just what happened up there, or just what led up to it. Do you understand? Never!"

The girl stared at her in amazement. "But I--I must tell some one,"

she cried vehemently. "I have a right to defend myself--"

"I am not asking you to defend yourself," said Mrs. Wrandall shortly.

Then, as if afraid to remain longer, she rushed from the room. In the doorway, she turned for an instant to say: "Do as I told you.

Telephone. Dress as quickly as you can." She closed the door swiftly.

Standing in the centre of the room, her hands clenched until the nails cut the flesh, she said over and over again to herself: "I don't want to know! I don't want to KNOW!"

A few minutes later she was critically inspecting the young woman who came from the bedroom attired in a street dress that neither of them had ever donned before. The girl, looking fresher, prettier and even younger than when she had seen her last, was in no way abashed. She seemed to have accepted the garments and the situation in the same spirit of resignation and hope: as if she had decided to make the most of her slim chance to profit by these amazing circ.u.mstances.

They sat opposite each other at the little breakfast table.

"Please pour the coffee," said Mrs. Wrandall. The waiter had left the room at her command. The girl's hand shook, but she complied without a word.

"Now you may tell me who you are and--but wait! You are not to say anything about what happened at the inn. Guard your words carefully.

I am not asking for a confession. I do not care to know what happened there. It will make it easier for me to protect you. You may call it conscience. Keep your big secret to yourself. NOT ONE WORD TO ME. Do you understand?"

"You mean that I am not to reveal, even to you, the causes which led up to--"

"Nothing--absolutely nothing," said Mrs. Wrandall firmly.

"But I cannot permit you to judge me, to--well, you might say to acquit me,--without hearing the story. It is so vital to me."

"I can judge you without hearing all of the--the evidence, if that's what you mean. Simply answer the questions I shall ask, and nothing more. There are certain facts I must have from you if I am to s.h.i.+eld you. You must tell me the truth. I take it you are an English girl.

Where do you live? Who are your friends? Where is your family?"

The girl's face flushed for an instant and then grew pale again.

"I will tell you the truth," she said. "My name is Hetty Castleton.

My father is Col. Braid Castleton, of--of the British army. My mother is dead. She was Kitty Glynn, at one time a popular music-hall performer in London. She was Irish. She died two years ago. My father was a gentleman. I do not say he IS a gentleman, for his treatment of my mother relieves him from that distinction. He is in the Far East, China, I think. I have not seen him in more than five years. He deserted my mother. That's all there is to that side of my story. I appeared in two or three of the musical pieces produced in London two seasons ago, in the chorus. I never got beyond that, for very good reasons. I was known as Hetty Glynn.

Three weeks ago I started for New York, sailing from Liverpool.

Previously I had served in the capacity of governess in the family of John Budlong, a brewer. They had a son, a young man of twenty.

Two months ago I was dismissed. A California lady, Mrs. Holcombe, offered me a situation as governess to her two little girls soon afterward. I was to go to her home in San Francisco. She provided the money necessary for the voyage and for other expenses. She is still in Europe. I landed in New York a fortnight ago and, following her directions, presented myself at a certain bank,--I have the name somewhere--where my railroad tickets were to be in readiness for me, with further instructions. They were to give me twenty-five pounds on the presentation of my letter from Mrs. Holcombe. They gave me the money and then handed me a cable-gram from Mrs. Holcombe, notifying me that my services would not be required. There was no explanation. Just that.