Читать книгу The Lie Circumspect - Rita - Страница 11

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It was close on midnight. Without the rain fell heavily and the wind shook the loosened leaves in showers upon the ground.

Kathleen Monteath sat before a table drawn near to the fire, reading the pages of her own life. The book was a journal she had kept by fits and starts from girlhood. There were breaks in it and intervals, and loosely jotted notes that would have meant nothing to an outsider. But to her the whole history was a living, palpitating record—a living, passionate outburst of the nature it revealed.

She took a pen and added a date on the blank page before her and commenced to write—

"This date means a new record—the beginning of a new life. I grasped at a chance. I wrote on an impulse to accept Mrs. Haughton's advertisement for a governess. I—a governess! Well, Fate has led me many a dance in my time, and none stranger than the one which has whirled me over sea and land to this deadly dull corner of Wiltshire—a corner so remote, so unknown to me that I expected—nothing.

"My host and hostess appear to me as very strange people. They are rich, yet their establishment is conducted on so simple a basis as to lead one to suspect meanness. She is a weak, gentle creature, who looks as if she had known some heavy trouble at some period of her early life. She is young, without anything of youth—its gaiety, its inconsequence, its aptitude for pleasure. She pleads ill-health. I say, pleads, for though fragile she does not look ill. Her husband—what shall I say of Lawrence Haughton? He puzzles me. He looks like a man who is hiding a secret. He is never natural or spontaneous. He, too, is young in years, yet his hair is grey and his eyes speak of an unhappy soul. This house and property belong to his wife, yet she gives him all due as master. They puzzle me, these people, as I said. I am determined to find out everything about them. I am here as a guest—on trial. I could not have remained in Ireland any longer. In half an hour I knew my position was secure as far as the mistress of the establishment was concerned; as for the master—I can snap my fingers. At present I will not speak of him. The child threatens trouble. But at present I can leave her also out of this galère. There is Barry. Fancy a governess bringing her own child with her. If that does not explain my audacity and Elinor Haughton's weakness nothing will."

* * * * * *

She paused here and laid down the pen to gaze long and thoughtfully at the fire. An odd smile broke suddenly the firm lines of her beautiful mouth. She seized her pen once more and wrote across the page.

"THE LIE CIRCUMSPECT."

"There," she said softly. "I have to depend on that. I think it will hold. But it is an odd coincidence to find here, of all houses and all places, a woman who knows me, and—my scandal. I wonder how much the old countess told? She had a bitter tongue. She would not spare me, or, indeed, any woman for the matter of that."

She traced a few more lines, then read over what she had written. She blotted and closed the book. Her glance wandered over the luxurious bed-chamber, the numberless appointments for comfort and convenience.

"It is the best chance," she said, "that life has ever offered me. And if I make my footing secure it means a theme for years to come. And Barry, too, will be safe. Why, if I played my cards well that spoilt little madam would refuse to part with him. If there was a decent school in the neighborhood I could keep him with me. I must find that out. I have a month to lay my plans. I have closed Mary Connor's mouth. There is no one else to fear. Elinor Haughton is too weak, and her husband——. If his secret is not mine before the month is out, then I am not the woman who has faced the law and baffled lawyers on her own account."

* * * * * *

She locked the book away in her desk and proceeded to make her toilet for the night. Before going to bed she opened the door leading into the adjoining dressing-room. The boy was sound asleep. She stood a moment looking down at him. The hard lines of her face softened, her eyes grew misty.

"If it were not for him," she thought, and suddenly sank on her knees and buried her face in his coverlet. "I have sworn to fight the world, to live down the past. But I am only a woman after all—a creature swayed by every gust of passion and of impulse. My heart is cold and empty, but for him."

A sob broke suddenly on the stillness. The boy stirred and turned suddenly on his pillow. She held her breath and kept quite still till he slept again. Then she rose and stole back to her own room.

The dying firelight alone illumined it. She had put out the candles long before.

She went over to the window and drew up the blind. A misty moon struggling through drifting clouds lit up the walks, the leaf-strewn lawn, and the dripping elm trees.

"It is the sort of place I have always wanted to stay at," she reflected. "Dull, no doubt, but surely safe. Oh! heaven grant I have fallen on a little space of rest and peace. I need them sorely. Still, it is almost too good a thing to have had for the asking. What a chance! To think that it was balanced by desperation—starvation—perhaps prison or suicide."

Elinor Haughton had closed her eyes that night in thankfulness, telling herself that a friend and companion had come into her lonely life who would brighten all its days. And Lawrence Haughton felt that his pulses could once more quicken and thrill to a woman's charm as he recalled her beauty and her voice. And Val, dreaming fantastic dreams in her quiet nursery, lived over once again the delight of the "boy's" companionship. And Mary Connor, telling her beads and hearing the clocks strike for many wakeful hours, murmured again and again, "The saints between us and all harm. I hope her story was true. And neither priest nor chapel within a day's journey that I might ease my conscience and ask advice, and she wheedling the promise out of me, so that I can't go back on my word! If it's true, sure she's to be pitied entirely, but by the same token if it's not—well, Mary Connor's the fool for believing her."

So the darkness descended and slumber wrapped the household in its dumb helplessness, and each heart hid its secret, and the burden of regret pressed less heavily through those unconscious hours.

Yet the element of tragedy lurked beside them all, waiting only a word, a chance, an accident, to hurl peace to the winds of torment and mock the assuring confidence that whispered safety.

* * * * * *

Kathleen Monteath met host and hostess as if they were old friends. It was impossible to resist that charm of manner, so frankly cordial, so delightfully at ease with itself and its surroundings, that is the secret of Irish popularity. Neither Elinor nor her husband could stand against that charm. They were full of plans for their guest's entertainment, and she was made free of the house and park and carriages and horses as long as her visit lasted. Day by day strengthened her fascination and held all about her in thrall. Even Val succumbed. It seemed to Elinor that this splendid gifted person was conferring an obligation upon them by accepting the position of governess and she said as much before the month was half-spent.

Mrs. Monteath uttered a warm disclaimer. "It is what I applied for," she said. "It stands between me and penury. Without some sort of employment I must starve."

There was no further question after that as to her remaining.

Meanwhile the devotion of Val to the "boy" was becoming a serious factor in the situation. They were inseparable companions, Barry confessing that for a "girl" she was more than creditable in all manner of enterprise and adventure, such as the country about afforded, and Anthony Hibbs encouraged.

But as the weeks flew by the question of Barry's schooling threatened a separation. Not that he need go till after the Christmas vacation, his mother hinted, but what was to be done with him meanwhile?

"Why not let the children do their lessons together?" suggested Elinor.

It was so desirable a plan that Mrs. Monteath felt it her duty to oppose it. But the opposition was of a kind to enforce arguments in its favor. Sooner than seem ungracious Mrs. Monteath gave in.

"It is only a temporary arrangement," she said. "I feel I am too easily persuaded and you are too generous. Never let anyone say in my presence again that English people are cold and uncharitable. Such kindness as you have shown is a national vindication."

"It is a pleasure—a real pleasure, to me to have you here," said Elinor Haughton warmly. "And I really see no reason why you should be parted from the boy. There must be some means of educating him in the neighborhood. I must enquire."

"When are you going to return the visits you have received?" asked Mrs. Monteath later on that day, when she was driving Elinor along the long level road that led to Lord Hallington's model village.

"It is not a duty for which I have much inclination," she murmured.

"But it would look so—so odd if you did not; as if there was some reason."

Elinor's pale cheek flushed suddenly. "Of course I shall call later on," she said. "But we are not going to entertain—at least not this year. I see no need for haste."

Mrs. Monteath had noticed the flush and drew her own conclusions. She sighed. "How strangely Fortune showers her gifts," she said gravely. "Now I, if I were a rich woman, would love to fill my house with people—to give splendid entertainments—never to be without company, life, gaiety, amusement. And you, who can do all this, seem more inclined for a hermit's life than to be a leader of society."

"It is a matter of disposition, I suppose. I am not cut out by nature for social success. There are few people I like, and it seems a foolish waste of money to entertain those for whom I care nothing, and to whom my existence is equally unimportant. I can quite believe it seems strange to you—you are so brilliant and so beautiful. No, it's not flattery. Women don't flatter one another. I never look at you but I think of a moth beside a lovely fluttering butterfly. I am the moth, a dull grey stupid thing, shunning the sunlight—you——"

"Indeed I cannot have you say such things. If I could only persuade you to try your own wings instead of folding them up in the darkness you would be quite as brilliant a butterfly as any here."

"Lady Vi would not agree with you. She is the social light of the place. Rides to hounds, joins the shooting parties, and dresses—well, if you chance to meet her you will be able to judge. I have never seen her twice in the same gown."

"And what is Lady Hallington like?"

"There is no Lady Hallington; she died ten years ago. And Lord Hallington has lost both his sons since. It has been a sad trial."

"A widower, and all this splendid property!" exclaimed Mrs. Monteath. "Surely he will marry again. Is he old?"

"I believe so. I have never seen him. He has done a great deal of good in the neighborhood and is very popular."

"And what other neighbors have you?"

"The usual thing—clergyman, doctor, retired military, county families of small property and large importance—the sort of people one feels bound to know and dislike."

"We are a livelier lot in Ireland," said Mrs. Monteath. "Is this the model village you spoke of?"

"Yes. It is pretty, is it not?"

"Idyllic. Certainly you would not see anything like that in my country. Who is this in the carriage facing us?" she asked quickly.

"That," said Elinor, "is Lord Hallington. I do not know him personally. He has not called yet."

Mrs. Monteath's fine eyes flashed a demure yet interested glance at the occupant of the passing carriage, with its fine pair of greys and perfectly appointed liveries. She saw a man considerably past middle age, with a pale, high-bred face and almost white hair. His cold blue eyes gave a swift inquisitive glance at her companion and herself. She would have been flattered had she known that he mistook her for the mistress of the Manor House.

"A handsome woman—a deuced handsome woman," he said to himself. "I must really call. I suppose I am their nearest neighbor, and though I always detested old Haughton, these people may be better. It's odd no one knows anything about them. But she certainly looks thoroughbred. Lady Vi will have a dangerous rival, I'm thinking."

"He is not really very old," murmured Mrs. Monteath. "And no son, you said? Who will inherit the property then?"

"I really do not know. Perhaps my husband can tell you. He gets all the county gossip from Anthony Hibbs, his steward."

"That's where Barry is so fond of going. I don't know what he finds to interest himself in, but Val and he are constant visitors."'

"They are quite safe," smiled Elinor. "Mrs. Hibbs is a dear old thing. I expect she spoils them. Her own family are out in the world—married, and doing for themselves. She is devoted to children. I wonder if they are there this afternoon?" she added. "We might call for them."

"Gracious! What's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Monteath suddenly. "Surely——"

"It's the children!" almost screamed Elinor, springing up. "Whatever has happened?"