The Secret of Greylands Read Free

another heir among her numerous connexions; and her relatives were still speculating as to upon whom her choice would fall when they were thunderstruck to receive the announcement of her marriage with a man considerably younger than herself, whom she had met while staying in a   pension at Brussels. She had not suffered any hint of her intention to get abroad until the wedding was an accomplished fact, and indignation and remonstrance were alike useless.
    That such of her relatives as had met her husband since their marriage had disliked him intensely, and had barely troubled to conceal their opinion that he was a fortune-hunter, apparently worried Lady Hannah but little. She and her husband continued to live abroad for some time; then there had been rumours that they intended to take a country-house in England. But Cynthia, absorbed at first in grief for her mother’s death, and later on in preparations for her wedding, had heard nothing more of them until the delayed letter which had reached her on her wedding morning.
    She opened her little bag, and, taking out Lady Hannah’s letter, perused it once more. The extraordinary way in which it stopped short in the middle and the blotted hurried appeal at the end, with the curious contrast between the two styles, struck her more than ever. That the marriage with Gillman had turned out a failure she was quite ready to believe; but there was a tone of fear, of helplessness, about the conclusion which seemed strangely at variance with what Cynthia had previously heard of her cousin’s resolution and self-reliance. However, no fresh light was to be gained by re-reading the letter, and, with a puzzled sigh, she crammed it in her pocket just as the train began to slow down for Glastwick.
    Cynthia opened the window and put her head out. The station was the veriest little shanty; it looked extremely dreary and desolate in the twilight. Though rain was not falling now, it had evidently been pouring quite recently—the eaves were dripping and pools of water were lying on the platform outside the scanty shelter.
    Cynthia reached down her bag and got out. The porter, the only one apparently that the station boasted, was busied with the luggage at the farther end of the platform; her trunk, already out, stood in conspicuous loneliness.
    Cynthia went up to it; she waited until the many milk-cans had been safely put in and a mountain of empties had been deposited on the platform, then she addressed the porter.
    â€œI want to go to Greylands. Can you tell me how far it is and the best way to get there?”
    The man turned a red, bucolic face and gaped at her without replying.
    â€œCan’t you tell me?” Cynthia repeated impatiently. “Greylands? Mr Gillman lives there.”
    The man scratched his head.
    â€œCan’t say as ever I heard of it, miss,” he said, the broad northern burr very apparent in his speech.
    Cynthia looked at him in amazement.
    â€œThis is Glastwick, is it not?”
    â€œAy, this is Glastwick, sure enough; but I know nowt of the other place,” the man said, beginning to move off.
    â€œWhat am I to do?” Cynthia questioned, following him despairingly.
    The porter eyed her stolidly.
    â€œMr King may have heard of it maybe,” he said, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the little booking-office.
    With a feeling of relief Cynthia turned towards it quickly. Two men were standing just inside.
    â€œCan you tell me the way to Greylands, please?” she began abruptly. As she spoke, the taller of the two men moved aside and apparently occupied himself in studying the outside of a large crate of crockery that stood near; the other, a dapper-looking, sandy-haired man, in the uniform of the company, came forward to meet her.
    â€œGreylands, miss? You mean Mr Gillman’s place, I suppose. It is a matter of six or seven miles off—over Grimston way.”
    â€œSix or seven miles away?”