The Master of the Priory Read Online Free

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    â€œThank you,” she said with a slight bow. Touching his cap the man went on. The train began to move. The woman crossed over and opening her bag drew out a tiny pocket mirror. Holding it up she studied her face intently for a minute, then with a deep sigh she laid the glass back, replaced the smoke-tinted glasses she had momentarily taken off, and drew down her thick veil.
    â€œIt looks quite right,” she said to herself in a low frightened whisper. “And it is so far away, surely there cannot be any danger.”
    She stood up and pulled down the shabby portmanteau with the letters E.B.M. stamped on one side. The label was addressed in firm angular writing—“Miss Elizabeth Martin, Davenant Priory, near Castor.” She shuddered as she put it on the seat beside her. Then suddenly she burst into a passion of sobs.
    â€œOh, Lizzie, Lizzie, you were right, I can’t do it,” she cried. “And yet, God help me, what is to become of me if I don’t?”
    Her sobs subsided, she lay back in her seat, big tears coursing miserably down her cheeks. There was time to turn back yet, she said to herself, time to give up this mad scheme on which she had embarked. She knew that there was a door of escape open to her, but her pride and some feeling stronger than pride forbade her to avail herself of it. No; she told herself that there was nothing for it but to go forward in the path she had chosen; there could be no harm by it and at least she would be safe.
    But all the while another voice was whispering to her, pleading with her to go back, to humble herself. When the train began to slow down she was still gazing mechanically out of the window, her expression strangely undecided.
    â€œCastor! Castor!” the solitary porter the little station boasted shouted in stentorian tones.
    Still for one second she sat motionless, then with a sudden look of resolution she got up, opened the door and stepped on to the platform.
    There were a few passengers to get out at Castor. One trunk had already been hauled out of the van: “Miss Elizabeth Martin.” She went up to claim it. An elderly woman was standing near it, an expression of perplexity on her comely face. She looked relieved as the passenger came up.
    â€œMiss Martin, ma’am?” she said respectfully, then as the other murmured an inaudible assent she went on, “I’m Latimer, Lady Davenant’s maid. Her ladyship desired me to see if I could help you in any way with your luggage. My lady intended coming to meet you herself, but she has one of her bad headaches this afternoon.”
    Miss Elizabeth Martin uttered a few words of polite regret and pulled her veil more closely down with fingers that visibly shook.
    Latimer relieved her of her bag and wrap and led the way to a waiting motor-car.
    Miss Martin glanced from side to side as they passed quickly down the narrow, little street. With its quaint black and white houses and pavements of cobble stones, Castor might certainly have passed for the original of Sleepy Hollow. Latimer pointed out the various objects of interest. The church, the Vicarage, the big old-fashioned market-place, the roof of Davenant Priory in the distance.
    â€œâ€™Tis but a bit of a walk,” she said. “But folks are tired after a long journey, so her ladyship always has them met. Miss Maisie ought to have come with me, but she has never had a governess before and she is a bit frightened at the notion, so she ran away and curled herself up on Sir Oswald’s sofa, and there isn’t any of us dare fetch her away from there.”
    â€œOh, dear! I do hope she won’t be frightened at me,” the new governess said with a touch of pathos in her tired tones. “I love children and I do want my little pupil to like me.”
    â€œShe is bound to do that,” Latimer said heartily, some motherly instinct in her touched by the appeal in the weary voice. She was