Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 1/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
As it happened, his uncle had not been gone many hours, when a respectable-looking young woman, with an intelligent face, asked for Mr. Twisden, and said she had come to claim her trunk. She was shown into the inner office, where George sat in his uncle's chair of state.
"You are Miss Shaw's maid? Where did you leave her?" asked the young man, jauntily.
"I beg your pardon, sir. Are you Mr. Twisden? I understood Mr. Twisden was an elderly gentleman."
"I am Mr. Twisden's nephew and representative. You can speak openly to me. My uncle is ill, and has left London."
"I was to give this to Mr. Twisden—himself, sir." She held out a letter.
"It shall be delivered to him," said George, taking the letter. Then, as he held it carelessly in his hand, "Do you wish to see Mr. Twisden? Are you remaining in London?"
"No, sir; I shall go down to my friends in Devonshire by an evening train."
"Then you have definitely left Miss Shaw's service?"
"Yes, sir; she said I was no use abroad, as I did not speak any foreign language. But she behaved very generously to me, and gave me the highest character, and said if I was out of place when she returned to England———"
"Oh! she is going to remain out of England some time, is she?"
"I am sure I don't know—I suppose so," replied the girl, colouring. Elizabeth had enjoined her to mention to no one the fact that she had crossed the seas, and now she had gone and let it out! But it was only to Mr. Twisden's nephew and representative, so it couldn't signify.
"Well, you had better leave your address with our clerk, in case Mr. Twisden wishes to communicate with you. Then he will whistle for a cab for you. You will find your trunk in the outer office. Good morning."
As soon as the door was shut, George Daintree turned over the letter in his hand, and examined the fastening of the envelope. He flushed quickly as he did so. He had never before thought of opening a letter not addressed to himself, but he thought of it now. What he had gathered from Mr. Shaw's conversation with his uncle had sharpened his curiosity concerning the heiress's strange escapade. He had just discovered that she was on the Continent. But where? This he was bent on learning; and if he gave Miss Shaw's letter unopened to his uncle, he might never learn it. George was more tenacious of purpose than of principle. During the last two days an idea had been forming in his brain, for the development of which it was essential he should obtain this knowledge. He was loth to open the letter. But, after all, what harm would it do to any one? He would never betray the secret, which was of value to him alone. And his uncle would never know that the letter had been read, for he saw how easy it was to ungum and refasten the envelope. At the end of a few minutes his first step on the downward path was taken. He had moistened the adhesive part of the cover, and delicately slipping in a penknife, bad opened it, and withdrawn the letter it contained. He then settled himself comfortably in his chair, and read as follows:—
"Dear Mr. Twisden,
"This will be brought you by my maid, whom I am sending back to England by the first train to-morrow morning; so you will get my letter earlier than you would do by the post. I have been in Paris three days, but have only found this evening a 'pension' which seems likely to suit me. I saw several, some very fashionable, some very nasty—none that would do, till I was recommended at the library to go to Madame Martineau's, close to the Luxembourg Gardens—a house patronized, I was told, by many respectable French persons, of what I suppose we should call the upper-middle class, and very rarely by any English. Madame Martineau pleased me—a motherly sort of woman, without pretension, with whom I am sure you would not hesitate to feel I was safe, if you could see her. I learnt that there were three lady-boarders, one of whom is an artist, and one a writer—what she called 'une femme de lettres'—and six men. One of these is Russian, and one American, with his sister—both artists. The rest are French, two being professors of the University, and all following some calling—no idlers. I can have (by paying extra) two rooms to myself. Of course my atelier will not be in the house, and I shall see but little of my fellow-lodgers. The less the better. As you may imagine, I am in no mood for society. I mean to work hard; it is the only way to drown recollection; but recollection with me will die hard. To-morrow I will write to my uncle. I believe this is due to him; but he must not know where I am. I trust implicitly to you to guard my secret. It is quite enough that you should know where I am. My maid believes that I am going to travel. Here, in an unfashionable quarter, I shall be as much lost as though I were in the backwoods of America. You will write to me, dear Mr. Twisden, I feel sure, and tell me all you hear from Farley. My address is 'Chez Madame Martineau, No. —, Rue ———, Paris.'
George sat buried in thought for some time after reading this letter. He then drew out his note-book, wrote down the address, and, after replacing the letter in the envelope, fastened it securely. If he felt any shame at what he had done, he tried to stifle the feeling. It was worth departing from the strict rules of honour, to obtain the information he had. The vague idea which had taken possession of his mind assumed a more tangible shape now that he knew exactly where Miss Shaw was, and would probably remain for some months. There was time before him to mature his scheme.
A couple of hours later he had delivered the letter, in person, to his ancle at Hampstead, and was seated in the parlour of Mr. Twisden's villa, overlooking a strip of garden, with the heath beyond. He lit a cigar while his uncle read.
"What did the maid say to you?" asked the old gentleman, as he replaced the letter in the envelope.
"Very little, except that she had left Miss Shaw on the Continent."
"I may trust you, George, not to repeat that? "
"Certainly. I suppose she is eccentric?"
"Well, yes—I must allow she is eccentric; but a clever young woman—a very clever young woman. She has got ideas which—which it is no use in the world to combat. She will grow wiser in time. The only thing, as I tell her uncle, is to leave her alone. She wants to live incog.—that no one shall know she is an heiress. Well, the only thing is to let her. All this is in confidence, George. I am committing no breach of trust in telling you thus much; but understand, you are not to mention Miss Shaw or her affairs to any one."
"It is the last thing I should think of doing," said his nephew; and he spoke the truth.
A week later Mr. Twisden was able to resume his daily visits to Gray's Inn, and George Daintree began to show a yellow stubble on his upper lip. His uncle, observing this, said with a smile—
"I see you are preparing for a trip abroad, and wish to discard Gray's Inn as much as possible?"
"I confess I do," returned the young man, frankly. "I am in no hurry to go; but when I do get away, I want a perfect holiday—a holiday from shaving, and chimneypots, and every other ensign of respectability."
"You deserve the luxury of being disreputable for a time. You have not had a holiday for so long; only don't let it demoralize you entirely. Where do you think of going?"
"Not very far—not out of France, I think."
"Well, you shall have six clear weeks. You can get over a lot of ground in that time."
"Certainly I can; but I shall not leave till you have discarded your stick. The autumn is really a better time to travel than the height of summer."
It was the end of the third week in September before George bade his uncle good-bye. He left no address. In case of emergency, he said, a communication might be sent by Mr. Twisden to his banker in Paris, who would know where George was to be found. Otherwise, letters were not to be forwarded. His plans were too uncertain. The necessity of replying to his correspondents would spoil all the pleasure he anticipited from his trip. It would be no holiday if he did not get rid of quills, ink, and paper. Should he have anything very particular to tell, he would write, but Mr. Twisden was not to expect letters. His uncle said he understood perfectly; he had once been five and twenty himself. Then he shook George's hand, and bade him go off and enjoy himself.