very precisely,” answered Mrs. Vincent. “I have a vague notion that Miss Graham said something about coming from the seaside, but she didn’t say where, or if she did I have forgotten it. Tonks, did Miss Graham tell you where she came from?”
“Oh, no!” replied Miss Tonks, shaking her grim little head significantly. “Miss Graham told me nothing; she was too clever for that. She knows how to keep her own secrets, in spite of her innocent ways and her curly hair,” Miss Tonks added, spitefully.
“You think she had secrets?” Robert asked, rather eagerly.
“I know she had,” replied Miss Tonks, with frosty decision; “all manner of secrets. I wouldn’t have engaged such a person as junior teacher in a respectable school, without so much as one word of recommendation from any living creature.”
“You had no reference, then, from Miss Graham?” asked Robert, addressing Mrs. Vincent.
“No,” the lady answered, with some little embarrassment; “I waived that. Miss Graham waived the question of salary; I could not do less than waive the question of reference. She quarreled with her papa, she told me, and she wanted to find a home away from all the people she had ever known. She wished to keep herself quite separate from these people. She had endured so much, she said, young as she was, and she wanted to escape from her troubles. How could I press her for a reference under these circumstances, especially when I saw that she was a perfect lady. You know that Lucy Graham was a perfect lady, Tonks, and it is very unkind for you to say such cruel things about my taking her without a reference.”
“When people make favorites, they are apt to be deceived in them,” Miss Tonks answered, with icy sententiousness, and with no very perceptible relevance to the point in discussion.
“I never made her a favorite, you jealous Tonks,” Mrs. Vincent answered, reproachfully. “I never said she was as useful as you, dear. You know I never did.”
“Oh, no!” replied Miss Tonks, with a chilling accent, “you never said she was useful. She was only ornamental; a person to be shown off to visitors, and to play fantasias on the drawing-room piano.”
“Then you can give me no clew to Miss Graham’s previous history?” Robert asked, looking from the schoolmistress to her teacher. He saw very clearly that Miss Tonks bore an envious grudge against Lucy Graham — a grudge which even the lapse of time had not healed.
“If this woman knows anything to my lady’s detriment, she will tell it,” he thought. “She will tell it only too willingly.”
But Miss Tonks appeared to know nothing whatever; except that Miss Graham had sometimes declared herself an ill-used creature, deceived by the baseness of mankind, and the victim of unmerited sufferings, in the way of poverty and deprivation. Beyond this, Miss Tonks could tell nothing; and although she made the most of what she did know, Robert soon sounded the depth of her small stock of information.
“I have only one more question to ask,” he said at last. “It is this: Did Miss Graham leave any books or knick-knacks, or any other kind of property whatever, behind her, when she left your establishment?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Mrs. Vincent replied.
“Yes,” cried Miss Tonks, sharply. “She did leave something. She left a box. It’s up-stairs in my room. I’ve got an old bonnet in it. Would you like to see the box?” she asked, addressing Robert.
“If you will be so good as to allow me,” he answered, “I should very much like to see it.”
“I’ll fetch it down,” said Miss Tonks. “It’s not very big.”
She ran out of the room before Mr. Audley had time to utter any polite remonstrance.
“How pitiless these women are to each other,” he thought, while the teacher was absent. “This one knows intuitively that there is some danger to the other lurking beneath my questions. She sniffs the coming trouble to her fellow female creature, and rejoices in it, and would take any pains to help me. What a world it is, and how these women take life out of her hands. Helen Maldon, Lady Audley, Clara Talboys, and now Miss Tonks — all womankind from beginning to end.”
Miss Tonks re-entered while the young barrister was meditating upon the infamy of her sex. She carried a dilapidated paper-covered bonnet-box, which she submitted to Robert’s inspection.
Mr. Audley knelt down to examine the scraps of railway labels and addresses which were pasted here and there upon the box. It had been battered upon a great many different lines of railway, and had evidently traveled considerably. Many of the labels had been torn off, but fragments of some of them remained, and upon one yellow scrap of paper Robert read the letters, TURI.
“The box has been to Italy,” he thought. “Those are the first four letters of the word Turin, and the label is a foreign one.”
The only direction which had not been either defaced or torn away was the last, which bore the name of Miss Graham, passenger to London. Looking very closely at this label, Mr. Audley discovered that it had been pasted over another.
“Will you be so good as to let me have a little water and a piece of sponge?” he said. “I want to get off this upper label. Believe me that I am justified in what I am doing.”
Miss Tonks ran out of the room and returned immediately with a basin of water and a sponge.
“Shall I take off the label?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Robert answered, coldly. “I can do it very well myself.”
He damped the upper label several times before he could loosen the edges of the paper; but after two or three careful attempts the moistened surface peeled off, without injury to the underneath address.
Miss Tonks could not contrive to read this address across Robert’s shoulder, though she exhibited considerable dexterity in her endeavors to accomplish that object.
Mr. Audley repeated his operations upon the lower label, which he removed from the box, and placed very carefully between two blank leaves of his pocket-book.
“I need intrude upon you no longer, ladies,” he said, when he had done this. “I am extremely obliged to you for having afforded me all the information in your power. I wish you good-morning.”
Mrs. Vincent smiled and bowed, murmuring some complacent conventionality about the delight she had felt in Mr. Audley’s visit. Miss Tonks, more observant, stared at the white change, which had come over the young man’s face since he had removed the upper label from the box.
Robert walked slowly away from Acacia Cottage. “If that which I have found to-day is no evidence for a jury,” he thought, “it is surely enough to convince my uncle that he has married a designing and infamous woman.”
Chapter 27
Beginning at the Other End.
Robert Audley walked slowly through the leafless grove, under the bare and shadowless trees in the gray February atmosphere, thinking as he went of the discovery he had just made.
“I
