Читать книгу Found Dead - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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It was Mortmain who first recovered his poise, to realize in a flash how this amazing thing had happened. For here was the woman of his dreams, the woman he had loved and lost and the one being in the world he had never expected to see again. And, behold, here she was, standing opposite him, as young and as beautiful as ever and not changed one iota from the girl from whom he had parted just two years ago with every hope of seeing her again on the morrow. And then had come that letter which had touched his pride and sent him out into the wilderness, a broken and unhappy man at the very moment when he had deemed himself to be basking in fortune's most spacious smile.

It was not to be deemed for a moment that Margaret Grimshaw, as he had to call her, had come there expecting to meet her old lover. At the same time it was almost incredible to Mortmain to believe that she had remained unaware of the startling change in his fortune.

"You wanted to speak to me?" he ventured.

"Oh, yes." Margaret said confusedly. "Of course I wanted speak to you. But then, I want you to believe that I did not know whom I was going to see, all the same."

"I am beginning to understand," Mortmain smiled. "You mean to say that nobody ever told you that I am Sir John Mortmain and that this is my country residence?"

"Indeed, no," Margaret murmured. "It is, perhaps, best to be plain. When I set out from Watersmouth an hour ago to call upon Sir John Mortmain, I had not the faintest idea that I was going to find myself face to face with—with——"

"Your old lover," Mortmain finished the sentence grimly. "There is no reason for us to beat about the bush over it. We can look back on that now with equanimity. You are a happily married woman and I am a rather lonely bachelor, pretending to be a popular novelist. I suppose some of these days I shall write another book, in fact, I was working on the plot when the tragedy everybody is speaking of, suddenly happened under this peaceful roof. I suppose it was this tragic event that brought you all this way to call at Mortmains."

"That is quite correct," Margaret said. "You see, I came down here a few days ago on a fortnight's holiday. I am very fond of the world and this is by no means my first visit. I am staying at the Crown Hotel in Watersmouth and early this morning I had a telephone message from the news editor of the 'Daily World' asking me to take up the story of the Mortmains tragedy and send them what I pleased. So I came over here at once to interview Sir John Mortmain—and——"

"And here you are," Mortmain smiled. "And here am I, for that matter. And you see, when I received a certain letter of yours, I was just back in London after helping to bury two cousins of mine who were killed in a motor accident and when the late owner of this property died a few weeks afterwards, more or less of a broken heart. I came into the property and the title."

"But you never told me——" Margaret began.

"No? Well, when I come to think of it, I didn't. You see, at that time I had not the least expectation of becoming head of the family, and there was no object in telling everybody that I was the nephew of a baronet. I always hated that sort of thing—it sounds so much like swank. However, here you are and I must do my best to make you welcome. I wonder if you will be offended if I ask you to join me in a bit of luncheon."

"That is very kind of you," Margaret murmured. "I shall be only too pleased. But are you quite sure——"

"Quite sure. Oh, I know what you are going to say. Then you can tell me all about yourself and I will tell you what I have been doing since we last met. So long as you are happy, the rest matters nothing."

It was rather a happy turn of speech and Margaret appreciated it accordingly. And yet, though she smiled pleasantly enough, there was very little about her to show that her married life had been a desirable one. There was just a suggestion of pain in her eyes and a faint shadow on her smooth brow that had certainly not been there two years ago. A worn and worried look that told imaginative Mortmain something of a tale. But it as not for him to comment on the subtle change, and he led the way into the dining room where, at his request, Farthing laid another place at the table. It was a glorious old room with its panelled walls and carved ceiling looking out over the broad expanse of sea, and Margaret exclaimed aloud at the beauty of it.

"What a glorious old house," she cried. "Do you know, I have often wished for a chance to look over it. You are a fortunate man to have a residence like this."

"Yes, I suppose I am," Mortmain said with something of a sigh. "But then, we are never satisfied. Now, sit down and make yourself at home. Farthing, you can put the lunch on the table and leave us. Mrs. Grimshaw is an old friend of mine and we shall have quite a lot of subjects to discuss."

Farthing did as he was told and discreetly vanished. It was not until the meal was finished and Mortmain passed the silver cigarette box across the table that he began to speak of those things which were nearest to his heart.

"I suppose it is no use going over old grievances," he said. "But there are one or two things which I should like to have explained. You are a staid married woman now and our old romance is more or less forgotten."

"I suppose it is," Margaret agreed. All the same, she didn't altogether look as it she thought so. In most ways, she was the old Margaret still, but the trouble cloud still dimmed her eyes, and there was a yearning look in them as she turned to her companion. Nor could she see that he was in any way altered. But, deep down in her heart, she knew that there had been no change, nor ever would be.

"In that case," Mortmain said. "Perhaps you would not mind answering me a few questions. Why did you write me that dreadful letter? If I had done anything wrong, why didn't you come to me and give me a chance of righting myself?"

"But you must not put me on the defensive like that," Margaret cried. "If I was rash and impulsive, surely I had cause?"

"My dear girl, that is just the question I am asking you. What was the cause? You never said in your letter. And I think you will admit it was rather a wild epistle. I am quite sure you were desperately angry with me over something or another. And when you told me you never wanted to see my face again, I could do no more than take you at your word. And I didn't mind admitting that I have been sorry for it ever since. If I had exercised my rights and compelled you to see me I am perfectly certain that I could have explained everything, whatever it was."

"Even those other letters of yours?"

"What other letters? Come, Margaret, let us have it out now. A curious chance has brought us together, otherwise we might never have met again. You may say I have everything now that a man could wish, but you would be wrong. Because I have this beautiful old house and all that it stands for, it doesn't follow that I am satisfied. I shan't even be satisfied when I have written the novel that is going to make my reputation. Call it a form of conceit, if you like, but I like to stand well in the eyes of every man, and when I say that, I mean every woman, too. I was a poor man when I last saw you, but I think most people would say an honourable one, and that is why I want to clear my name in your sight, if you will only give me a chance. But it is strange that you didn't know of my change of circumstances."

"Not so very strange I think," Margaret murmured. "I was just as unhappy as you when I wrote that letter. I didn't want to see you again, I didn't want to see anything that reminded me of you. So I just slipped out of the old set and changed my lodgings. I suppose that is why I never heard that Jack Mortmain had become Sir John Mortmain, baronet. I hadn't the remotest idea, when I called here to-day, whom I was going to see."

"Otherwise——" Mortmain queried. "Otherwise?"

"No," Margaret said firmly. "There is no otherwise about it. I had a commission offered me, and I should have taken it even if I had known that I was going to meet the man I used to be engaged to. I can't afford to turn down work."

Mortmain gazed at Margaret in astonishment. For the first time he noticed that she was not so well dressed as she used to be in the old days. There was an indefinite air about her as of one who has a struggle with life.

"But that is all nonsense," he explained. "I know you are making quite a good income in Fleet-st., and, besides, you had some hundreds a year of your own."

"We will come to that presently," Margaret said. "For the present I have to work hard enough for a bare living. Let us confine ourselves for the moment to the letter you complain of. I wrote it after seeing another letter. I am speaking of the last communication you ever made to Violet Graham."

"Violet Graham? I have never heard the name mentioned before."

"What—not the girl who used to be in the chorus of one of the theatres? I forget which for the moment, but it doesn't matter. A girl you used to take on the river. A very pretty girl, but terribly frail and consumptive. And when her final illness came and she wrote to you in distress, you turned your back upon her in the most brutal fashion."

"I give you my word of honour," Mortmain exclaimed. "This is the first time I have heard a word of it."

"Perhaps you would like to see the letter," Margaret replied. "I have it in my bag."