Читать книгу The Lie Circumspect - Rita - Страница 10

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A splendid vision in sombre draperies swept into the dining-room, dwarfing her hostess both in figure and attire. Elinor Haughton was not a woman calculated to show off dress, and always attired herself in the simplest and quietest style compatible with good taste.

Lawrence stared at the beautiful stranger whose dazzling throat and arms showed milk-white against black silk, guiltless of ornament or flower, and regally independent of either adornment. He greeted her with somewhat distant politeness. He scarcely approved of such a queenly personage for the role of governess. Like his wife, however, he soon found himself under the spell of Kathleen Monteath's fascination.

It was not what she said, but the way she said it, that made every topic she chose either amusing or interesting. She had a store of expressions that were novel, and a picturesque method of treating even trivial details that made her excellent company. So gay and pleasant a dinner had never been known since husband and wife had arrived at the Manor. To both a third person came as a relief to a situation daily becoming more strained. Frankness between them was a thing of the past. The cloud, "no bigger than a man's hand," was already assuming larger and darker proportions. The endeavor to keep past memories and past events out of their conversation was a perpetual drag on their liberty of speech. Therefore Kathleen Monteath's flow of talk and light jests and witty remarks were doubly welcome.

"Do we have the children in at dessert time, or is that against the rules?" she enquired when the well-served meal drew near its conclusion.

Elinor Haughton smiled involuntarily at that "we." The new guest had very speedily enrolled herself as one of the family.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Val always comes down when she is good. I wonder how they have got on together?" she added.

"Barry is a dear boy," said his mother. "He is not used to girls, but I do not think he will be rough with your little one. What a lovely child she is. You should have her portrait painted in that scarlet frock."

The children entered upon that remark, Val in white, and her new companion in a neat knickerbocker suit of black serge.

She led him up to her father. "This is the boy," she said. "He is called Barry. It is a funny name, but ca m'est égal. I like him. His name—what does that matter?"

"Nothing of course," said her father. "How do you do, Barry? You won't let this imp bully you. She'll try to."

The imp calmly indicated a chair next her own as a seat for the boy, and gave him her opinion as to the relative merits of apples and candied fruit.

Barry was a very handsome boy, with his mother's regular features and dark blue eyes. At first he seemed somewhat embarrassed by his position and the strange faces, but Val's incessant chatter put him more at his ease. Their elders watched them with evident amusement. Mrs. Monteath's keen eyes, however, noted that there was a difference between the attitude of father and mother towards Val; that Mr. Haughton's position towards the child was more observant than authoritative. She treated him in a cool patronising fashion, amusing enough to a spectator, yet savoring somewhat of insubordination.

If he issued a command the child instinctively turned to her mother; in any plan or desire it was also to her she appealed and on whom the onus of the decision rested. Slight things apparently, but Kathleen Monteath was by nature an observer of trifles, and nothing seemed unimportant that helped her judgment of character. It struck her also that Lawrence Haughton was not quite at ease with the child—that he listened to her random chatter with vague apprehension, as if he were never certain what she might choose to say.

When she accompanied her hostess to the drawing-room the children came also. Barry at his mother's request sang some Irish songs to her accompaniment. He had a lovely clear treble, one of those beautiful boy-voices whose short-lived perfection is the despair of choirmasters. Val was enchanted. Music was the passion of her soul; and that the "boy" should share it and exemplify it in this fashion filled her with a sort of awe.

Mrs. Monteath treated the accomplishment lightly. "All Irish people are musical," she said. "They have the soul of it even if the outward expression is denied."

"Do you sing yourself?" asked Elinor.

"Oh! yes. Only Irish songs, though. I am not accomplished enough for any other sort. I'll give you 'Kathleen Mavourneen,' if you like?"

"Oh! do. I love singing, and I never hear it."

"That is surely your own fault," exclaimed Mrs. Monteath in surprise. "In London or Paris you can hear the best music the world has to offer."

"Of course—but my health forbids much excitement," said Elinor, in slight confusion.

"And here?" enquired her guest. "Have you no neighbors who are musical?"

"I know nothing of my neighbors as yet," answered Elinor, coldly. "We have been a very short time at the Manor. Scarcely a month."

"A month! Gracious! If you had been in an Irish county a month you and your neighbors would have known pretty well everything about one another."

She seated herself at the Broadwood grand and ran her white fingers lightly over the keys. The children withdrew into a corner to examine an illustrated Don Quixote.

"I suppose they are all well off, or titled, the people about?" went on Mrs. Monteath.

"Oh, yes. There are excellent families, but the distances are great, and I am really not up to entertaining or being entertained. I like quiet—and so does my husband. His tastes are literary, and he spends a great deal of time in his study."

"Is it not rather a dull life—for you?" enquired Mrs. Monteath. "You are too young—and, may I say it, too pretty, to be buried alive in this fashion. But I suppose I have no business to say so, I forget. You are so kind to me that I feel less a visitor than a privileged friend."

"I am glad of that," said Elinor earnestly. "You may speak as frankly as you please. And now, I am waiting for that song."

It was worth waiting for, she told herself, when the power and pathos of that glorious contralto filled the room. It drew Lawrence Haughton from his wine and his brooding thoughts, it held Val spellbound. And one other person seemed fascinated by its charm, and stood white and wide-eyed at the drawing-room door gazing at the singer. That person was Mary Connor.

With the last notes Mrs. Monteath turned. In doing so, she faced the door and the motionless figure standing there. The intent gaze fixed upon her face somewhat surprised her. She glanced half-enquiringly at her hostess.

"That is Mary Connor—Val's nurse. She is a countrywoman of yours," explained Elinor.

"The name tells me that," said Kathleen Monteath, sending her charming smile in Mary's direction. "It is odd you should have an Irish nurse and—an Irish governess," she added.

"It is a coincidence," answered Mrs. Haughton.

"From what part of Ireland are you?" asked Mrs. Monteath of Mary.

"From County Waterford, ma'am," she answered.

"Oh, is that so?" There was just the faintest ripple of surprise or—was it apprehension?—in the beautiful face. Then she turned away. "If Val is going to bed, Barry had better go also," she observed. "I will take him upstairs."

The boy rose at once. He was apparently more obedient than Val.

"Say good-night to Mr. and Mrs. Haughton," continued his mother. "And thank them for so kindly asking you here."

"We don't need thanks," exclaimed Elinor, as she bent down and kissed the boy's uplifted face. "I am glad to have a playmate for Val. She knows no children of her own age and she grows sadly old-fashioned."

"We will go upstairs together," announced that young lady, refusing to be parted from her new friend, and accompanying him in his 'good-night' tour. "I wish you were to sleep in my room. Maman comes to tell me stories—every night. Do you like stories. And does madame, your mère, tell you of giants and fairies, and the great geni that came out of a bottle like smoke?"

"No," said the boy. "I've read them though, those stories."

"Ma foi, you can read then. Read for yourself? It will be as good as that maman tells me the stories."

"Come, Miss Val. I am waiting," said Mary Connor suddenly.

"I come. You always are in such a great hurry. Bon soir, maman; bon soir, p'tit papa. Is it not that I have been good, all that it is of the best to-night? Not one scold all the evening."

"There will be one scold if you keep Mary waiting much longer," said her mother, laughing.

The children ran up the stairs, their hands linked. Slowly the two women followed, the nurse a step behind the visitor.

At the corridor Mrs. Monteath suddenly turned. "You—remembered me?" she asked.

"It wouldn't be so easy to forget a face and a figure like yours, ma'am," answered Mary. "The name, of course, puzzled me a bit, but I suppose it's to be explained?"

"Nothing—is to be explained," said Mrs. Monteath, in a low hard voice. "There is no reason for it."

"Does the mistress know?"

"She knows as much as is necessary. Mary Connor, you are my countrywoman; you have no reason to bear me ill-will. Will you keep silent about—about what you learnt. If I am driven from here it means ruin—starvation—death, perhaps. You would not have a fellow-creature's death on your soul, Mary?"

"'Deed, ma'am, I would not; but all the same it goes hard with me to be deceiving the mistress. And she so kind and trusting."

"I am doing her no harm, nor anyone else; of that you may be sure. But I cannot talk more. Come to my room later—make some excuse—I will tell you the truth, of—of all that happened. In the meantime promise you will say nothing."

"It's not meself would harm a fellow-creature, leave alone one of me own country, and me own birthplace. You may rest happy for that, ma'am."

"Thank you. I am sure you mean it. But come to me as I asked—unpacking will serve as an excuse. It is only right you should know the truth."

Without waiting for reply she entered her room. The communicating door was open, and Val and Barry were chasing each other to and fro, and taking flying leaps over the little brass bedstead. She stood a moment and watched them.

"Even here," she said to herself. "Even here! Can I never escape? Is that wretched scandal to follow me wherever I go? Powers above send help to my invention. What lie am I to tell this woman that will seem most like—truth?"