_ CHAPTER XXII. THE HEART OF THE MYSTERY
Lucile regarded the speaker soberly for a moment. She was a dainty, pretty, bright-eyed little person, with a repose of manner that seemed, somehow, out of keeping with her obvious youth. Lucile had understood the softly spoken French question, but when she answered it was in the native tongue.
"I do not understand French," she said, slowly. "I am an American."
"Ah, I, too, can speak the English," said the other, with a delightful accent. "What is it I can do for you, Mam'selle?"
Lucile could have hugged her, so great was her joy at hearing her own language spoken so unexpectedly.
"If you will just be good enough to let me stay here till the storm is over," she said, "and tell me how to get to my friends, I will be very much obliged."
"Ah, Mam'selle has lost her way," said the little French girl, nodding her head quickly several times. "I know the country well and so will give you the aid you require." She spoke with painstaking correctness. "Enter, Mam'selle!"
Lucile was very glad to avail herself of the invitation, for she was tired from the long walk and her damp clothing clung to her limbs uncomfortably.
Her diminutive hostess led her into a large, low-ceiled, home-like room, whose broad window sills were abloom with fresh-cut flowers. Lucile thought that only the sun was needed to make it the cheeriest room in the world.
"If Ma'm'selle will explain to me from where she comes," the girl invited, "I will the better know how to make swift her return, since she wishes it."
"Thank you!" said Lucile, gratefully. "I wouldn't care so much for myself, but I'm afraid my folks will be terribly worried." Then she went on to describe the inn and her adventure of the morning.
When she had finished, her hostess nodded thoughtfully. "I know the place of which you speak," she said, "and I would most gladly take you there immediately, but my servant has gone to the village with the only carriage of which we are the owner and has not yet returned. I fear he may have waited for the storm to abate," and she glanced out the window, where the rain was still pouring down in torrents.
Lucile's heart sank. "Then I can't hope to get back to the folks or send word to them till the rain stops," she said.
The girl nodded confirmation. "I fear that is so, Ma'm'selle," she said; then, as though realizing her duty as hostess, she rose to her feet, saying, hurriedly, "But I forget myself. You must have hunger, Ma'm'selle. I will return at once." Then, checking herself again, she added, "But I have not yet told you my name. It is Jeanette Renard."
"And mine is Lucile Payton."
"Now are we acquainted," said Jeanette, gaily.
Lucile, left to herself, felt again, only to a greater extent, that strange sense of familiarity with her surroundings. Then, in a flash, the solution came to her. Why, how stupid she was not to have realized it before! The chateau corresponded, word for word, with M. Charloix's description. In Lucile's own words, it was it!
And her name was Jeanette! Why, of course! How absurdly simple the whole thing was! Why, this was the very scene of M. Charloix's amazing story. But that she, Lucile, should stumble into the very midst of all this mystery----
At this point in her meditations Jeanette re-entered the room, smiling and serene. Lucile decided she was older than she looked.
"I will send a servant with a message to your people after you have finished your repast," she said.
"But the rain?" Lucile began.
"Ah, that is nothing," said the girl, shrugging her shoulders, as if dismissing the subject. "She is well used to it."
Although Lucile's excitement and curiosity were fast reaching fever heat, she tried to control herself and to answer Jeanette calmly and sanely.
A few moments later a delicious meal was spread before her, to which she did full justice, feeling by this time on the verge of starvation.
When she had finished, Lucile expressed her curiosity and admiration for the old place and Jeanette suggested that they look about--provided her guest was not too tired. Lucile replied that she felt as if the word "tired" had never been in her vocabulary--which was literally true.
At the end of a fascinating tour of inspection, during which Lucile had started many times to put pointed questions to Jeanette and stopped just in time, Jeanette paused at the foot of a winding staircase.
She ascended a step or two; then, looking down upon her guest, said, wistfully, "I am so glad you came! I have so little company and seeing you has been like--ah, like a cup of water to one dying of thirst," and underneath the little laugh that followed Lucile fancied she detected an infinite sadness.
Her warm young heart went out to the other girl, as she said, heartily, "Then I'm very glad I mistook the path this morning, since it has given me a chance to know you. But why don't you ever see anybody?" she added. "Aren't there any girls around here?"
"Oh, yes, there are some--but it is so long a story, I would not bore you with it. Come, we will go upstairs!" And, though Lucile was dying to hear more, she wisely forbore to press the point.
While they were looking about them happily there was the sound of wheels on the drive and Jeanette, rushing to the window, exclaimed, "There's Pierre at this minute. Mam'selle will pardon if I speak with him a moment?" and for the second time that day Lucile was left alone in this house of romance and mystery.
"She won't mind if I look around by myself," and so she began to explore in earnest. She was tremendously excited.
"They say these old chateaux are full of secret passages, but I'd never have the luck to find any. Oh, I'm afraid the girls won't believe me when I tell them about it--and I won't blame them much if they don't; I'd have to see it to believe it myself."
The attic was large and many cornered, with a sharply slanted roof, shading tiny, many-paned dormer windows. There were the regulation cobwebs, that hung in attractive festoons from the rafters. These, with the quantities of discarded but beautiful old furniture, scattered about in picturesque confusion, formed an effective background for Lucile's detective work.
She groped her way over every inch of the wall, sometimes getting down on her knees, trying to persuade herself she really hoped to find a spring that would release something hidden--she didn't care much what it was, but it must be hidden. However, after she had convinced herself that there was not a square inch of space she had not investigated, she rose to her feet reluctantly, feeling as though she had been cheated.
"Horrid old thing!" she murmured, dusting the cobwebs from her hands. "You look so nice and interesting and mysterious just on purpose to discourage promising young sleuths like me. I wish I hadn't given you the satisfaction of bothering with you," and she leaned against the wall in utter disgust.
Thus does fortune, in the very hour of our despair, place in our hands the thing for which we have been so hopelessly searching. Even as her elbow touched the panel behind her there came a sharp click and before Lucile's startled gaze a small, square door opened slowly and deliberately, trembled, seemed to hesitate, and then came to a full stop, leaving its shallow interior exposed to view.
It was not till then, when she stood, open-mouthed and open-eyed, staring dumbly at this apparition, that she realized how little she had really expected it to happen.
"Well, I'm not dreaming, that's one sure thing," she murmured, approaching the little opening with extreme caution, while chills of alternate fear and excitement coursed all over her. "It seems so weird and ghostly to see that thing open all by itself, with nothing to help it along! Ghosts or not, I'm going to see what's there," and, strengthened by this resolve, she started to place her hand in the opening, but drew it back quickly with a frightened gasp.
"You're a coward," she accused herself, angrily. "Any one would think you had touched a snake. If you don't hurry up, Jeanette will be here and spoil everything. I think she's coming now," and spurred on by the sound of approaching footsteps, she reached in and drew forth a long, rolled-up, legal-looking document, tied and sealed and covered with dust.
"I know it's the will. I'm right, I'm right!" she cried, joyfully. "She is
the Jeanette--but, oh, how the plot thickens----"
"What have you found?" said a soft voice behind her, and she turned to confront Jeanette, who was smiling and curious.
"Look!" said Lucile, waving the document wildly. "The door just opened--I don't know how; my elbow must have touched a spring--and this thing was in it--the opening, I mean, not the door."
"But what is it?" asked Jeanette, puzzled. "I have not the remembrance of having looked at it before."
"Then you don't know?" said Lucile, wide eyed.
The girl shook her head, eyeing the document with a puzzled expression. Gradually bewilderment changed to surprise, surprise to incredulity.
"It's the will!" she cried. "The will of Henri Charloix! Oh, it cannot be so; it can't--you say you found it in here?" she questioned, and, without waiting for an answer, plunged her hand into the opening, while Lucile drew nearer to her.
"May I look?" she asked, and the girl nodded, turning luminous eyes upon the pretty, awed face at her shoulder. "You may prove to be the best friend I have ever yet known," she said, solemnly, and drew from the secret hiding-place a very ordinary tin box, with a scrap of writing bound to it with a coarse cord.
The wording was in French, but Jeanette, translating for her benefit, read: "To be opened by my little daughter Jeanette on the event of her twenty-first birthday. Signed, EDOUARD RENARD."
"It is from my father!" cried Jeanette, sinking down, all white and trembling, upon a worn old couch and clasping the precious box to her as though she could not let it go. "Father! father!" she cried, and, bending her head upon her arms, sobbed as though her heart would break.
Lucile turned and tiptoed from the room, thinking she had intruded long enough; but a soft call from Jeanette made her pause. She seated herself on the stairs and waited.
To Lucile's tingling consciousness that short wait seemed an eternity. Her head ached with the flood of imagination that besieged it, her two hands grasped the banister to keep her rooted to the spot, while her feet tapped an impatient tattoo on the floor.
At last the longed-for summons came.
"Lucile," called a low, unsteady voice, "will you come to me?"
Would she come? Lucile flew up the winding stairs and came to a standstill before Jeanette a trifle uncertainly, not quite sure what was expected of her.
The uncertainty lasted only a moment, for, as Jeanette, shy, and dewy-eyed, held out her arms to her new-found friend, quite suddenly Lucile knew. Impulsively she threw her arms about the older girl and drew her close, whispering, softly, "Tell me all you feel you can, Jeanette; you can trust me."
"Oh, I believe that," said Jeanette, between sharp little intakes of breath. "Were I not sure of it, I could not so confide in you."
"Thank you," said Lucile, simply.
"You see," the girl continued, "when I was very young I went to live with M. Charloix, whose will this is," indicating the document.
"And M. Charloix had a son, named after him, Henri," Lucile supplemented.
The girl drew back in startled wonder, while the bright color flooded her face. "You know that--but how?" she cried.
"We sailed with M. Charloix from New York to Liverpool," Lucile explained, striving vainly to keep her voice calm and steady. "He was searching for you."
"Then you know--he has told you everything," whispered the girl, while the document in her trembling hand rattled and shook. "Was he--did he--oh, how did he look?" And she turned pleading eyes upon Lucile.
Lucile's own eyes filled suddenly and she had to choke back the tears before she could continue. "He looked very wan and sad. You see, uncertainty like that must be pretty hard to bear."
"Ah, it has not been easy for me," said the girl, softly. "It is a great thing to renounce all you hold most dear in this world--to fly for refuge to a spot like this--the long, weary nights--the waiting--the longing--oh, you cannot know!" and she burst into a passion of weeping.
"You--you're going to make me cry," said Lucile, while a tear rolled down her face and splashed upon Jeanette's bowed head.
"Ah, I am so foolish! There is no reason for tears--not now," and over the girl's tear-stained face flashed such a look of radiant joy that Lucile could only gaze, dumbfounded, at the transformation.
"Wh-what?" she stammered.
"Ah, you wonder, you are amazed--but you will not be when I have told you all. Look, this is the will--the will for which I have heard Henri is hunting. But that is not everything--oh, it is nothing! See!" and she held up the little tin box for Lucile's inspection, feverishly, eagerly. "In this is a letter from my father--my father, who died when I was so young and left me to the care of my guardian. He was good to me, but M. Charloix----" She shivered slightly. "But the letter,"--she drew it forth reverently--"ah, that changes the world for Henri and me!
"You see, when my father was very young, scarcely more than a boy, he ran away and married a girl of great beauty and intelligence, but one considered by the people among whom he moved as far beneath him in station. The rest is so old a story--his family were so cruel to him when it came to their knowledge, disinheriting him; and my father, not being accustomed to earn his own living, could not make enough to protect his sweet young wife--my mother----" Her voice broke, and Lucile squeezed the small, brown hand encouragingly.
"Ah, imagine it!" she cried. "Most often she had not enough to eat. Then, when I was only an infant, heart-broken at the suffering she thought herself to have brought upon herself and little daughter, together with so great privation itself, she died. My father followed soon after--heart-broken. Before he died, he wrote me this--ah, see how old it is--for he could not bear that I should hear of him from other lips than his."
"But you, the child?" Lucile interrupted, eagerly. "What became of you?"
"Ah, he bequeathed me to the one friend whom he had not lost--and he was good; I cannot make you understand how good!"
"But he never told you about your parents?"
"It was my father's request that he should not--and--and----" Her voice trailed off into silence. Chin in hand, she gazed unseeingly at the opposite wall.
Lucile was silent for a moment, busy patching the pieces of the story together into one connected whole. Then, leaning forward suddenly, she cried, excitedly, "Then M. Charloix deliberately made up that wicked, cruel lie that separated you and his son?"
The girl nodded. "But nothing matters now, save that it was a lie," she cried, and Lucile, looking at her, marveled.
The raucous toot of a motor horn brought both the girls to their feet with a startled exclamation.
"Oh, it is your friends," said Jeanette, running to the window. "You must go down at once. Ah, I am sorry to part with you,
ma cherie," holding the younger girl from her gently and looking earnestly into the flushed, eager, face. "You have come into my life like some good fairy, bringing happiness with you."
Emotion choked the words Lucile wanted to say, but her silence was more eloquent than words and Jeanette was satisfied.
A moment later they were descending the stairs, arm in arm, and very reluctant to part.
To Lucile's surprise, Jeanette paused as they reached the lower hall and motioned her to go on.
"But I want you to meet my father and mother and the girls," Lucile protested. "You've got to give them a chance to thank you."
But Jeanette only shook her head. "I can see no one now," she whispered, tremulously. "Ah, I could not bear it!"
Lucile nodded understandingly. Then, "Monsieur Charloix?" she questioned.
"Send him to me." This last was very low. _