AN OLD ROMANCE
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling, don’t be vexed with me!” cried Miss Culpepper, rising and fluttering towards Grace. “I’ve been fretting so about you being here all alone, and now I’ve had the good fortune to let the cottage for three months, and all the money paid in advance, I felt I must come straight up, without asking your permission. And—and I’ve brought Dear Brutus too. He’s been so good through the journey.”
“You darling!” cried Grace, and just hugged her, kitten and all. “Come in. How cold and tired you must be! And, oh, how glad I am to see you!”
Indeed, there was no one in the world, save Roger himself, whom she would have welcomed more gladly at this moment than the quaint little woman. It was extraordinary how her very presence dispelled that tragic, unutterable loneliness which had always hitherto assailed her when she returned to this her solitary nest, so lovingly prepared for the mate who might never come home to it.
As she flitted about, preparing tea for her unexpected guest, despite Miss Culpepper’s protests that she “hadn’t come to be waited on,” caressing Dear Brutus and laughing at his antics, listening to the old lady’s vivacious account of her journey, of the new tenants, and of the arrangements made for Cleopatra, whom Miss Culpepper had left as a “paying guest” with her friend at St. Margaret’s, she felt more cheerful than she had done since the day when the black shadow fell on her and Roger, eclipsing their honeymoon, severing them perhaps for ever.
If Miss Culpepper had had her own way she would immediately have taken possession of the diminutive kitchen, and remained there, but that Grace would not hear of for a moment.
“Indeed, I want you to treat me just as an ordinary servant, except that I don’t want any pay or to be a burden on you in any way,” the old lady declared. “You see, I was in service all my life, with very good families, too, till I saved enough money to buy the cottage and set up for myself. So I do know my place, dear Mrs. Carling, and I shouldn’t have assumed to come to you, uninvited, under any other circumstances.”
“You’re going to stay as my dear and honoured and most welcome guest,” Grace assured her. “And I promise you that in every other respect you shall have all your own way, and cherish me as much as ever you like, when you are rested.”
Miss Culpepper’s anxious, loving old eyes had already noted the changes which these weeks of sorrow and anxiety had wrought in the girl since those few days of radiant happiness at the cottage. She looked, indeed, more beautiful than ever, but with a pathetic, etherealized beauty, fragile to a degree.
“It’s high time somebody came to take care of her; she’s on the very verge of a breakdown,” Miss Culpepper inwardly decided, and unobtrusively entered on her self-imposed labour of love. Within twenty-four hours she and Dear Brutus were as much at home in the little flat as if they had lived there all their lives—and the cheerful confidence with which she regarded the future, as it concerned Roger and Grace, was an unspeakable comfort to her young hostess, while her amazing phraseology was entertaining as ever, and provided Grace with a new occupation—that of committing to memory the quaintest of the old lady’s expressions in order to retail them to Roger when next she visited him.
“Never fear that everything will be made clear in the long run, and your dear husband triumphantly vitiated,” she declared. “It’s terribly hard for you both now, but keep your courage up, mettez votre suspirance in Dieu: that means ‘put your hope in God,’ as I dare say you know. You’ll wonder where I picked up such a lot of French,” she continued complacently. “It was when I was a girl living in Paris with one of my ladies, and I’ve never forgotten it in all these years.”
She sighed, and lapsed into silence, gazing meditatively into the fire. Grace, lying on the sofa, with Dear Brutus curled up in her arms, watched the wistful, gentle old face, and wondered what the little woman was pondering over.
“How long were you in Paris?” she asked presently.
Miss Culpepper started, and resumed her knitting with a slightly flurried action.
“I’m afraid I was relevée in the past,” she confessed. “I was only there for about two years—the very happiest in all my life: at least the last year was. Then my lady’s husband died suddenly—he was Sir Henry Robinson, who had a post at the Embassy, a very nice gentleman though a little pomptious sometimes—and the establishment had to be broken up. I came back to England, and soon got another place, a very good one—again with a lady of title, where I stayed for many years. And—and that’s all!”
Again she was silent, apparently absorbed in her knitting, but Grace saw two tears roll down her withered cheeks, and wondered more than ever what train of remembrance had roused the old lady’s emotion, though she did not like to question her further.
They both started as the front door bell sounded.
“I’ll go,” said Grace, rising, “I expect it is my father.”
It was not the professor, but a small, spare, very neatly dressed old man, whom at first she did not recognize.
“Mrs. Carling?” he asked. “I must introduce myself, madam. My name is Thomson.”
She knew him then, though she had only seen him once previously, when he had given evidence at the police court on the return of the stolen papers to his master, Sir Robert Rawson.
“Mr. Thomson!” she exclaimed. “You—you have come from Sir Robert Rawson?”
“Not precisely, madam; though I am in Sir Robert’s service. I came on my own account to beg the favour of a few minutes’ conversation.”
“Certainly. Do come in,” she said, her pulses fluttered with the wild hope that this old servant, whom Roger so liked and trusted, might have something of importance to communicate.
As he followed her through the little hall he glanced with an expression of surprise at a hat and coat hanging there, which he recognized as Roger’s; at several walking-sticks in a rack, at a sling of golf clubs in the corner, and, as he entered the dining-room, looked across at once at the writing-table by the window, and the little table with pipe-rack, tobacco jar, and match stand beside it.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said quickly, “but is Mr. Carling at home—has he been released?”
Grace turned in surprise.
“No. What makes you ask that, Mr. Thomson?”
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, madam; but I saw Mr. Carling’s things in the hall and his table there, just as he liked to have it when he was with Sir Robert, and I thought—I hoped——”
“They are ready for his home-coming,” said Grace. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thomson? This is my friend, Miss Culpepper. Why, do you know each other?”
For Miss Culpepper, who had risen hastily at their entrance, was staring at Thomson in a most curious and agitated manner. “It can’t be—yes, it is!” she gasped. “James—James Thomson—don’t you know me?”
He looked at her inquiringly and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, madam, you have the advantage of me. What name did you say?”
“Maria Culpepper, that was maid to Lady Robinson when you were Sir Henry’s valet. I was thinking of you, and of those old days not five minutes ago. You’ve forgotten me years ago, I can see that, but I’ve never forgotten you, James, though you never wrote as you said you would!”
He put up his gloved hand and rubbed his chin meditatively, then removed the glove and extended the hand with conventional politeness.
“To be sure, Miss Maria. I remember you now, though it’s a good many years ago. I’ve been with Sir Robert near forty years. Strange to meet you again like this—very strange; and with Mrs. Carling’s permission I might call some night and have a chat over old times, but I’m a bit pressed for time just now, and have something urgent and private to say to Mrs. Carling.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll go at once,” murmured poor little Miss Culpepper, hastily gathering up her knitting which had fallen to the floor, and making a courageous attempt to recover her wonted dignity. “Good night, James. I—I shall be very glad to see you again, as you say, one of these days.”
Grace accompanied her to the door, dismissed her with a kiss, and whispered a word of sympathy, then returned to Thomson, feeling more bewildered than ever.
“How very extraordinary that you and Miss Culpepper should be old friends,” she said, motioning him to a chair.
“Thank you, madam. Quite so,” he responded, seating himself bolt upright on the extreme edge of the chair, and holding his bowler hat on his knees. “I am sorry I did not remember the old lady at first. She was quite young then, as I was—a very nice young woman, now I come to think of it. Indeed, if I remember rightly, I had the intention at one time of asking her to be Mrs. Thomson, but fate intervened and we drifted apart.”
His manner, formal, precise, irreproachably respectful, yet seemed somehow curiously callous, and exasperated Grace, on behalf of her poor little friend.
“Evidently she has never forgotten you, Mr. Thomson,” she said, with some warmth. “And she is the kindest and most loyal little creature in the world. She would have made a good and most loving wife.”
“Quite so, madam. But even at the time I doubted if I was cut out for matrimony, and I have never seriously contemplated it since.”
“Why did you come to see me?” she asked point blank, as he paused, and sat gazing, not at her, but at the crown of his hat.
“It’s a little difficult to explain, madam,” he said, raising his eyes for a moment, but without meeting her direct gaze. “And first I beg of you not to consider it an impertinence. Then—may I ask if Mr. Carling has ever spoken of me to you?”
“Often—and always in the very highest terms.”
“That was like him,” said Thomson, with more feeling in his dry voice than he had yet exhibited. “Except my master, Sir Robert, there’s no gentleman in the world I respect so much, or who I’d sooner serve than Mr. Carling. He was always the same, always treated me like a human being and not a servant, or a stock or stone. Madam, I’d do anything in the world that I could to serve him!”
“I believe you, Mr. Thomson. Thank you,” said Grace softly, telling herself that she had misjudged the man.
“This terrible charge that has been brought against Mr. Carling has upset me more than anything has done for years, madam,” he resumed: “that and the fact that my master believes him to be guilty and has turned against him altogether. I can’t understand it. Sir Robert ought to have known him better. I have presumed several times to try to remonstrate with my master, but he won’t hear a word even from me. It’s—well, really, madam, it’s been a great grief to me, for it’s the only serious difference Sir Robert and I have ever had in all the years that I have served him.”
“It’s a great comfort to me—and it will be to my husband—to know that you are so loyal to him, Mr. Thomson,” Grace said earnestly, greatly touched, but wondering more and more what had prompted the old man to come to her now.
“Thank you, madam. Though that is not actually what I took the liberty of coming here to say,” he responded, as if in some uncanny manner he had read her unuttered thought. “It was to ask if you have arranged for Mr. Carling’s defence?”
A wild hope flashed to her mind.
“Mr. Thomson! Is it possible that you know of anything—that you have any information that would help to clear him?”
He shook his head.
“Unfortunately, I know nothing whatever of Mr. Carling’s movements on that fatal day, madam, beyond what I have heard and read as stated in evidence. That was not what I meant. He must have the best defence that money can obtain.”
“Yes. And I hope—I think—we have arranged that Mr. Cummings-Browne, the famous K.C., will undertake the defence.”
“Very good, madam. But I understand that these big legal gentlemen come very costly; and—I’m sure you will pardon me, and take the question as it is meant, as confidential and most respectful I do assure you, but—have you got the money in hand?”
“The greater part of it; and I shall get the rest by the time it is needed.”
“Might I make bold to ask how much is still wanted?”
“About five hundred pounds,” she replied, watching him perplexedly, while he continued to gaze down at his hat.
There was a little pause. Then:
“That’s what I was afraid of, madam, knowing that Mr. Carling couldn’t be by any means wealthy,” he said slowly, and putting his hat on the table, unbuttoned his overcoat and from an inner pocket fetched out a worn and bulky leather case. “That’s just why I came here to-night, madam. I’ve thought about it constant for weeks past, but it was a bit difficult to know how to do it without giving offence—though, in a matter of life and death, which is what this is, a lady like you and a gentleman like Mr. Carling wouldn’t take offence where none was meant. I’ve got five hundred and fifty pounds in Bank of England notes; they’re all my own, they’re not a quarter of my savings—for I’ve had good wages these many years and never any expenses to speak of, and I’ve invested well and regular. And now I beg you and Mr. Carling to do me the honour of accepting this as a loan—and as much again and more if it should be wanted—to be repaid any time, it doesn’t matter how many years hence.”
As he spoke he opened the case, extracted a sheaf of crisp white bank-notes, opened, smoothed them, laid them on the table, and rose, adding, “I think you’ll find there are twenty-eight—twenty-seven twenties and one ten.”
Grace had listened, too utterly amazed for speech; and now she, too, rose, in tearful, trembling agitation.
“Oh! Mr. Thomson, what can I say? It is too noble, too generous! But—I—we—can’t really——” she cried incoherently.
“Please, madam, please!” he said, more hurriedly than he had yet spoken, and edging his way towards the door. “I’m not going to take them up nor touch them any more. The—the honour and the privilege is mine, and I’d take it kindly if you wouldn’t mention the matter to Mr. Carling or to anyone; it’s just between you and me, if you don’t mind, madam. My respectful duty to Mr. Carling when you’re able to see him, madam.”
He was now in full retreat across the little hall, his hand actually on the latch of the door.
“Wait one minute,” she pleaded distractedly. “At least let me try to thank you—try to say what I feel and think; or do come back to see your old friend, Miss Culpepper——”
But he had the door open and was already outside.
“Thank you kindly, madam. I would be very glad to call one evening and have a chat with Maria over old times. And please don’t be so distressed, madam.”
With that he was gone, passing like a grey shadow down the staircase, leaving Grace staring after him through her tears.
“And he didn’t even let me shake hands with him!” she thought, as she went in and shut the door.