The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 24

HERE are moments in life, not, alas! very many in number, when everything about us takes on a wonderful radiance, and when all that happens seems merged in joy.

All through Lily's curious, disturbed night there had shone the golden flame of her love for Angus Stuart, and of his love for her. It was that miracle which filled the whole of her being and absorbed all her thoughts. When she got up the next morning she scarcely remembered that poor Cousin Rosa was dead, and that she was now a very rich young woman.

“The bath is quite ready,” said Cristina eagerly. “And I have already emptied some buckets of hot water in it for Mademoiselle.”

With her hand on the key of the door which led into the little yard, Lily turned round; “Oh, Cristina, something so strange happened in the night. I'm quite sure that the big gate outside here was opened, and that someone came in. I heard such curious noises on two separate occasions, but though I looked out of the window it was too dark for me to see anything.”

The old woman looked apprehensively towards the door which gave into the house.

“There are many bad characters about,” she murmured. “It makes the Count nervous. Do not say anything about this to him, Mademoiselle, or to the Countess. They would only be angry with me.”

“Angry with you?” repeated Lily, surprised.

“It is possible that I left the big gate undone. The only time that gate is open is when they are bringing in the wood and the charcoal for the fire. Some was brought a day or two ago. I may have left the gate unlocked,” she repeated, in a troubled voice.

The girl hurried out and ran across the yard. The outhouse had evidently been tidied up by Cristina that morning. Somehow it looked different.

Lily glanced round. What was it that made this queer little place look other than usual? Then all at once she knew—the curious-looking trolley, which as a rule stood just opposite the door, was now pushed back alongside the further wall. No doubt it had been used yesterday by Uncle Angelo when moving the plants he had bought two days ago to the garden.

And then, all at once, it struck Lily that it must have been Uncle Angelo who left the gate unlocked. Every time that trolley was moved out from the outhouse the gate must of course be unlocked to let it through.

The water in the high, narrow zinc bath was still very hot, and Lily did not want to go back into the house to get a pailful of cold water. So she walked about, stamping her little feet to keep warm, for it was rather cold in this shadowed, outdoor room where no sun ever penetrated. At last she went close up to the trolley—she could think of no better name for it—and then she noticed that the big bicycle wheels were splashed with yellow mud.

And then, all at once, there rose before her mind that patch of yellow mud into which the Pescobaldis' motor had sunk. She recalled the Marchese's explanation that there was a spring under the ground. It was clear that the trolley must have been dragged across there very recently.

“I want you and Cristina to go down into the town this morning. There is something I desire you to do for me at the English bank.”

Before Lily, who had just had her breakfast, could answer, the Countess went on: “I want you to get some money changed for me there.”

The Countess went quickly out of the kitchen, and Lily heard her go upstairs into her bedroom. In a few moments she was back again with a small work-box of old Italian wormanship [sic].

“I have here some English notes,” she said, ”that I want changed into French money. As you know, there is a good rate of exchange, especially if it is done through an honest banker.” She paused, and then said firmly: “I want you to say that these notes were sent you from England in a registered letter.”

Lily flushed up, and the Countess exclaimed: “It is a very small, a very white, lie!”

“Why should I say anything?” said Lily uncomfortably. “Of course they will think I got the money from England.”

“What hypocrites the English are!” The words were uttered very bitterly. “They think nothing of saying 'Not at home' when they are at home, but they hesitate about a small thing like this to oblige one who loves them.”

Poor Lily! She felt overwhelmed with discomfort. It seemed to her that Aunt Cosy was making a fuss about nothing, and trying to make her, Lily, lie for the sake of lying.

“Very well,” she said at last. “If I should be asked—which I don't think likely—then I will say that I got them from England. After all, they did come from England originally!”

She held out her hand. She supposed Aunt Cosy was going to hand her three or four five-pound notes.

But the Countess drew out of the pretty box a thick wad of paper money.

Lily felt much taken aback. In this wad of bank notes which the Countess was holding in her hand there must be some hundreds of pounds—that is, supposing each note was worth five pounds.

“It is not necessary to count them,” said the Countess quietly. “There are here—I have reckoned it all out—a hundred thousand francs, my child. That is—let me see?”—she waited a moment—“four thousand pounds of English money.”

“Four thousand pounds?” repeated Lily. She was thoroughly startled. “What a tremendous lot of money, Aunt Cosy!”

“Yet I should be sorry if I thought that Miss Rosa had only left you that tremendous amount of money?” exclaimed the older woman drily.

“Each of these notes must be worth a great deal,” said the girl slowly.

“They are fifty-pound notes,” said the Countess quietly, “and there are here eighty of them.”

“The bank manager will be very much surprised,” said Lily hesitatingly. Somehow she did not at all like the thought of doing this job for Aunt Cosy. “He will think it so extraordinarily that I should want so much French money. Mayn't I say it is for Uncle Angelo?”

“On no account do that, Lily.” The Countess looked much disturbed. “The money, as a matter of fact, belongs to a friend of mine, and Beppo is going to invest it.”

She waited a moment. “Just now English people are sending their money to France because of the good rate of exchange. The banker will not be as surprised as you expect him to be.”

“I should just like to ask you one thing,” said Lily timidly.

“Yes, my dear, what is that?”

There was something forbidding in Aunt Cosy's voice.

“I've only been wondering, Aunt Cosy, whether these notes were paid through the bank where I have my account. If so, of course they will know that I cannot have received them from England.”

Countess Polda, not for the first time, was startled at this, as she thought, unusual display of intelligence on Lily Fairfield's part.

“You can feel quite comfortable,” she said deliberately. “These notes have only just arrived in Monte Carlo by registered post. But if the slightest difficulty is made, then bring them straight back to me. Is that understood, Lily?”

“The girl felt relieved. “Yes, of course, Aunt Cosy.”

“I shall be very glad if you will start at once,” went on the Countess, “for I expect Beppo and his luggage early this afternoon. He will first see his friends off, and then he will come straight here. I need hardly say that you and Cristina must drive back. In fact, you had better engage a carriage as soon as you see one disengaged, and drive in it to the bank.”

“Why should we do that?” asked Lily.

The Countess told herself that the girl was a fool after all!

“Because it would be very dangerous for you to leave the bank on foot with so much money on your person. Bad characters hang about banks to see what money is drawn out—then they snatch the bag or purse into which it has been put.”

“I see,” said Lily slowly. She felt extremely, horribly uncomfortable at the thought of what she was going to do for Aunt Cosy.

“While you are at Monte Carlo, would it not be well to send a telegram to Mr. Bowering, just to say that you have received his communication? It might be well also to instruct him to purchase a handsome wreath. After all, you owe that, dear child, to dear Cousin Rosa!”

Lily made no answer to that suggestion, and a few minutes later she and Cristina started off for the town. The money, contained in a huge envelope which was fully addressed, as Lily noticed, to herself, at La Solitude, lay at the bottom of the big market basket carried by the old waiting-woman.

They had been walking for a few minutes when suddenly Lily's companion slipped, and would have fallen had not the girl caught her strongly by the arm.

“You ought not to have come out to-day, Cristina!” exclaimed Lily. “I saw this morning that you were really ill.”

”I got up too early, Mademoiselle,” said Cristina in a dull tone. “So I am very, very tired. Still, I am glad to be with you, and away from La Solitude!”

“Surely it isn't necessary for you to go to church, especially on a week-day, so very early?” said the girl impulsively.

“I ought never to go into a church.” Cristina was speaking in an almost inaudible voice. “I am not worthy to enter the House of God. But, Mademoiselle, I feel so safe there. As you know, the Devil hates holy water. He cannot follow me past the porch.”

She spoke in such a suffering, troubled tone that Lily had not the heart to smile at her extraordinary words. In a sense she was awed and moved by the sincerity of Cristina's faith, even if she, Lily, thought it a curiously superstitious faith.

“I am quite sure that only angels surround you, Cristina,” she said, now smiling outright. “The Devil is much too busy looking after his own to trouble about you!”

“And what if I were to tell you that I am one of his own?” said the old woman, looking round fixedly into the girl's face.

And though the sun was shining, and Lily's heart was full of joy, there did come over her a strange, eerie feeling of fear.

Cristina's life in La Solitude, a life which must have been extraordinarily lonely before she, Lily, had come there, had evidently affected the poor old soul's brain....

There are a good many lunatic asylums round Epsom, and among Uncle Tom's friends was a very clever doctor attached to one of these institutions. He had sometimes told the Fairfields pathetic stories of his patients, and of their strange, uncanny delusions.

Lily's thoughts turned instinctively to M. Popeau. She must ask him what could be done to rescue Cristina from a life which was evidently slowly driving her mad. There must be almshouses and homes of rest in France, as there are in England, suitable for such a case.

She took Cristina's hand. “Look here!” she exclaimed. “It's wrong to feel like that—really wrong!”

And then, as Cristina shook her head, she added, rather shyly: “I know you believe in the good God. Surely you do not think that He would allow evil spirits to surround you? Why, it's a terrible thought!”

Cristina gazed at Lily with a strangely pathetic look.

“Forget that I said anything,” she whispered nervously. “If the Countess knew that I had said this to you, Mademoiselle, well—useful as I am to her, I think she would kill me! I am terribly, terribly afraid of her!”

Lily's heart beat with pity and concern. It was quite clear that Cristina, while fond of the Count in a way, and obviously adoring Beppo, hated her mistress.

“Of course I shall say nothing to Aunt Cosy—I shouldn't think of doing such a thing!”

They walked on in silence.

And then, suddenly, Cristina began to talk in quite a cheerful voice of the food she was going to buy for that night's supper. It was clear that her mind had gone off to Beppo, and to his coming stay at La Solitude.

Suddenly she asked: “Why has Mademoiselle got on a black dress and a black hat? To-day is a joyful day in Mademoiselle's life!”

Lily was puzzled by these words. Cristina couldn't possibly know that to-day, the first day of her secret engagement to Angus Stuart, was indeed marked with a white stone.

She blushed and laughed. “I am happy, though I have had some sad news, Cristina, news that ought to make me sad. An old cousin of mine, who was very kind to me, is dead. The news was in the telegram which came for me yesterday.”

“Ah!” said Cristina, drawing a long breath. “Mademoiselle has relieved my mind. The Countess took the telegram from the man, and I was afraid perhaps that Beppo was in some trouble!”

They were now close to the entrance of the town, and the old woman put out her small, thin hand and touched the girl lightly on the arm.

“You have been the good angel of La Solitude!” she exclaimed. “And now it is owing to you, to your being with us, that Beppo comes to pour fresh life into three withered hearts.”

She waited a moment, then added slowly, almost reluctantly: “I should not have spoken as I did of the Countess just now. She is not entirely bad, for she is devoted to her son. This morning she told me she believed that henceforth all would be well with him.”

“Indeed, I hope it will!” said Lily.

But still, there came across her a slight twinge of discomfort, for poor Cristina was looking at her with such a strangely adoring expression on her face. Her sensation of discomfort deepened when the old woman added:

“And it is to you—to you, that we owe everything! I always feared that Beppo would marry a haughty, ugly woman, whom he would detest, from whose hand it would be bitter to take anything!”

“I hope he will not do that,” said Lily, getting very red.

“We know he will not do that. He is going to marry an angel!”

Lily felt a sharp thrill of annoyance and dismay shoot through her. Aunt Cosy felt so convinced that she could force her, Lily, to marry Beppo, and Beppo to marry Lily, that she had actually confided her intention to Cristina!

The girl hastened her footsteps. She felt embarrassed and angry. But somehow she did not believe that Beppo would lend himself to such a plot, if plot it was.

Perhaps something of what she was feeling showed in her face, for several times Cristina looked at her with a nervous, apprehensive look, though she said nothing.

Things seldom turn out as one expects in this world. The bank manager, while professing himself quite willing to exchange the notes, yet offered her much fatherly counsel on the unwisdom of play. He apologised for what he called his impertinence, explaining that he had daughters of his own; and then he proceeded to tell her one or two sad stories about English ladies who had come to Monte Carlo and risked and lost the whole of their fortunes. Lily did not know what to answer. It seemed best to obey strictly Aunt Cosy's injunctions, to listen to all he had to say, and to make no comment.

When Lily came out of the bank she suddenly made up her mind that she would drive to the Convalescent Home, and arrange about work there. Something told her that it would be easier to persuade Aunt Cosy to let her do as she wished if the matter were settled.

The place was a good deal further from La Solitude than the chaplain had given her to understand. In fact, it was in France, quite a couple of miles from Monte Carlo proper.

But Lily found that she was eagerly expected by the good-natured, jolly-looking matron. It was arranged provisionally that she should go there three times a week, arriving about ten in the morning. “And we shall always be pleased to give you lunch,” the matron said, smiling into the girl's pretty, happy face.

After they had left the Convalescent Home and were driving back towards Monaco, Cristina suddenly exclaimed in a pleading voice, “I wonder if Mademoiselle would mind taking me for a moment to the Convent of the White Sisters? It would not delay us more than ten minutes.”

Lily assented, pleased that she could do something to give the old woman pleasure.

In her eagerness, Cristina got up in the open carriage and touched their driver. He looked round, without slackening their break-neck pace.

“The Convent of the White Sisters,” she exclaimed, and the man nodded, and whipped his horses up to go yet faster than they were going.

Up the steep road leading into old Monaco the little carriage rocked and swayed. They swept past the lovely garden of which Lily now had a poignant memory, and then they started going down more slowly a very narrow, quiet street of high stone houses, and finally they drew up opposite a huge closed iron gate.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Cristina in an eager voice—a voice quite unlike her own. “My mother died when I was only five years old,” she whispered, “and I was here a great deal, both as a child and as a young girl. Indeed, this convent was my real home.”

Lily was very much surprised; she had always supposed Cristina to be Italian born and bred. Then she was a Monegasque, after all?

A postern door opened, and Cristina motioned Lily to pass through into the courtyard round which the convent was built.

Everything up on the rock has to be on a small and rather confined scale, but even so it was a fine and spacious courtyard, and Lily was surprised to see that there were four huge blue pots, exactly similar to the two at La Solitude. Perhaps Cristina saw the surprise in the English girl's face, for she said quickly, “These were presented, as well as the geraniums growing in them, by the Count to the White Sisters. There is a close connection between the Polda family and the White Sisters.”

“Yes, indeed,” chimed in the nun who had admitted them. “Our holy foundress was a Countess Polda.”

Lily could not help smiling at the image evoked. With the best will in the world it would have been impossible to associate the epithet “holy” with the woman she knew as Countess Polda!

The two visitors were shown straight into a small, lofty hall, of which the window overlooked the sea and the rugged coastline towards Nice. Just below the window was a narrow, terraced garden.

“I will inform the Mother Superior that you are here,” said the sister ceremoniously; and as soon as she had left them Cristina hurried across to the window. “It is down there,” she said, pointing to a path which ran along the top terrace, “that I used to play during Recreation!”

The door opened, and a nun dressed all in white, a commanding, almost a splendid, figure, who looked to Lily's eyes as though she had stepped out of a mediæval pageant, walked in. Cristina curtsied, and the nun put out her hand and clasped that of the old woman.

“So this is your young English friend,” she said, and she fixed a pair of penetrating, dark eyes on Lily's face.

“I have brought her to receive your blessing,” said Cristina, “and I hope to bring Beppo before many days are past.” She added, rather nervously, “Mademoiselle is a Protestant, but that, no doubt, is a misfortune which will in time be remedied.”

And then there came across the old nun's face a very charming look. “An old woman's blessing can only do Mademoiselle good!” she exclaimed; and then she took Lily in her arms and kissed her.

The girl felt extremely moved, and, yes, interested by this, to her, surprising experience; but she felt vexed and also annoyed by the reference to Beppo Polda. It was obvious that Cristina meant to associate them, Beppo and herself, in the mind of the Mother Superior.

“A sorrow has befallen the community,” said the nun in a sad tone. “We have lost our beautiful cat! Every effort is being made to find him, but we fear he found Monaco too dull, and that he betook himself off one morning to gay Monte Carlo.”

The Mother Superior accompanied them across the courtyard. When they reached the postern gate Cristina burst into sudden tears.

“How I wish I was going to stay here, with you!” she said, sobbing.

But the old nun patted her on the shoulder. “Come, come, Cristina, you must not be foolish! How often have I told you that it is a privilege to serve God in the world.”

Cristina dried her eyes, and Lily saw her make a determined, almost agonised, effort to regain her usual quietude.

For a time they drove along in silence, and then Lily said affectionately: “I am sure the Mother Superior would agree with what I said to you to-day, Cristina—that God is far too good to allow any evil spirits to some near you.”

“No doubt she would say that,” answered Cristina sombrely, “but, like you, Mademoiselle, she is not in a position to know how God treats those who neglect to keep His laws.”

And then Lily suddenly remembered with dismay that when making her arrangements with the matron of the Convalescent Home she had forgotten all about Beppo's visit to La Solitude! Perhaps, after all, she had better start going there regularly after he had left.

What had happened the night before had altered the whole of life for Lily Fairfield. Everything, excepting Angus Stuart, his love for her, her love for him, seemed out of focus. She felt ashamed of the interest she had felt in Beppo Polda. She had looked forward to his visit at La Solitude, but now she regarded it with indifference, mixed with a certain apprehension—an apprehension which had deepened since Cristina had uttered those curious, ambiguous words to the old nun. Cristina obviously hoped, with all her heart, that she would marry Beppo, and without any doubt the Countess hoped so too, now that she, Lily, had become residuary legatee to Cousin Rosa.

But somehow she no longer felt afraid of Aunt Cosy, and of Aunt Cosy's plans. Even in England people often want a marriage to come to pass—and it just doesn't!

What would Lily have felt had she known that Aunt Cosy had taken from the postman that very day a bulky letter addressed to “Miss Lily Fairfield,” and, further, that after having carefully perused it, she had decided that it need never be delivered to its lawful owner?