Part 8 (1/2)

”Thank you, mother,” said Muriel, who was growing restive under this instructional use of an evening party. ”I will take the first opportunity of practising your advice.”

At this moment Charnock stepped over the sill. He stepped up to Mrs.

Warriner's side and spoke to her. Mrs. Warriner stopped within a couple of yards of the dowager and gave her hand, and with her hand her eyes, to her companion.

”Muriel, look!” said the censorious one. ”How vulgar!”

”Shall I listen too?” asked Muriel, innocently.

”Do, my child, do!” said the dowager, who was impervious to sarcasm.

What was said, however, did not reach the dowager's ears. It was, indeed, no more than an interchange of ”good-nights,” but the dowager bridled, perhaps out of disappointment that she had not heard.

”An intriguing woman I have no doubt,” said she, as through her gla.s.ses she followed Miranda's retreat.

”Surely she has too much dignity,” objected the daughter.

”Dignity, indeed! My child, when you know more of the world, you will understand that the one astonis.h.i.+ng thing about such women is not their capacity for playing tricks but their incredible power of retaining their self-respect while they are playing them. Now we will go.”

The dowager's voice was a high one. It carried her words clearly to Charnock, who had not as yet moved. He laughed at them then with entire incredulity, but he retained them unwittingly in his memory.

The next moment the dowager swept past him. The daughter Muriel followed, and as she pa.s.sed Charnock she looked at him with an inquisitive friendliness. But her eyes happened to meet his, and with a spontaneous fellow-feeling the girl and the man smiled to each other and at the dowager, before they realised that they were totally unacquainted.

Lady Donnisthorpe was lying in wait for Charnock. She asked him to take her to the buffet. Charnock secured for her a chair and an ice, and stood by her side, conversational but incommunicative. She was consequently compelled herself to broach the subject which was at that moment nearest to her heart.

”How did you get on with my cousin?” she asked.

Charnock smiled foolishly at nothing.

”Oh, say something!” cried Lady Donnisthorpe, and tapped with her spoon upon the gla.s.s plate.

”Tell me about her,” said Charnock, drawing up another chair.

Lady Donnisthorpe lowered her voice and said with great pathos: ”She is most unhappy.”

Charnock gravely nodded his head. ”Why?”

Lady Donnisthorpe settled herself comfortably with the full intention of wringing Charnock's heart if by any means she could.

”Miranda comes of an old Catholic Suffolk family. She was eighteen when she married, and that's six years ago. No, six years and a half.

Ralph Warriner was a Lieutenant in the Artillery, and made her acquaintance when he was staying in the neighbourhood of the Pollards, that's Miranda's house in Suffolk. Ralph listened to Allan Bedlow's antediluvian stories. Allan was Miranda's father, her mother died long ago. Ralph captured the father; finally he captured the daughter.

Ralph, you see, had many graces but no qualities; he was a bad stone in a handsome setting and Miranda was no expert. How could she be? She lived at Glenham with only her father and a discontented relation, called Jane Holt, for her companions. Consequently she married Ralph Warriner, who got his step the day after the marriage, and the pair went immediately to Gibraltar. Ralph had overestimated Miranda's fortune, and it came out that he was already handsomely dipped; so that their married life began with more than the usual disadvantages.

It lasted for three years, and for that time only because of Miranda's patience and endurance. She is very silent about those three years, but we know enough,” and Lady Donnisthorpe was for a moment carried away. ”It must have been intolerable,” she exclaimed. ”Ralph Warriner never had cared a snap of his fingers for her. His tastes were despicable, his disposition utterly mean. Cards were in his blood; I verily believe that his heart was an ace of spades. Add to that that he was naturally cantankerous and jealous. To his brother officers he was civil for he owed them money, but he made up for his civility by becoming a bully once he had closed his own front door.”

”Yes, yes,” interrupted Charnock, hurriedly, as though he had no heart to hear more; ”I understand.”

”You can understand then that when the crash came we were glad. Two years after the marriage old Allan Bedlow sickened. Miranda came home to nurse him and Ralph--he bought a schooner-yacht. Allan Bedlow died; Miranda inherited, and the estate was settled upon her. Ralph could not touch a farthing of the capital, and he was aggrieved. Miranda returned to Gibraltar, and matters went from worse to worse. The crash came a year later. The nature of it is neither here nor there, but Ralph had to go, and had to go pretty sharp. His schooner-yacht was luckily lying in Gibraltar Bay; he slipped on board before gunfire, and put to sea as soon as it was dark; and he was not an instant too soon. From that moment he disappeared, and the next news we had of him was the discovery of his body upon Rosevear two years afterwards.”

Charnock hunted through the jungle of Lady Donnisthorpe's words for a clue to the distress which Miranda had betrayed that evening, but he did not discover one. Another question forced itself into his mind.