CHAPTER VII
Teresina Ricardo and her cousin's wife did not see each other after Terry came back from Friars' Moat to White Fields, until they met in the drawing-room just before dinner. Maud had been lying down trying to sleep off a headache, when her visitor returned; and Terry, after inquiring for Mrs. Ricardo's health, had gone straight to her room. Thus she had had more than two hours and a half to herself, when precisely at eight o'clock she descended the stairs to the drawing-room. She knew that Mrs. Ricardo was already there, for a message to that effect had just been sent her.
Terry was glad that Maud was so much better; nevertheless, instead of hurrying down to give the news of the afternoon, she kept her room till the last minute. Dinner was at eight; and if Maud's were a punctual household, there would be no time for any private talk before the two must go into the dining-room, and be waited upon by several discreet-looking but sharp-eared footmen.
As it happened, however, it was not a punctual household. Norman Ricardo, a captain in the Navy, away at present in command of his ship, when on leave enjoyed the luxury of being late for everything. Maud, an American, and a native of New Orleans, was always behind hand on principle. People who knew her invited Mrs. Ricardo to come to their houses at least twenty minutes before they wanted her, by which means she often arrived not more than half an hour late. Such habits did not make for punctuality in kitchen and servants' hall. As the cook was well aware that eight o'clock meant half-past at White Fields, she arranged matters accordingly, to suit herself; and though Terry—only just arrived—had not found it out yet, Mrs. Ricardo's guests, if prompt in assembling for meals, were quite accustomed to converse among themselves in the drawing-room for long before their hostess appeared.
For a great wonder, however, Maud had dashed down to-night at five minutes to eight, and had sent to ask if Terry were ready. She pretended to think that dinner would be announced soon, but as a matter of fact, the two ladies were likely to have half an hour together before being summoned to the dining-room, as the cook had not counted on this promptness.
"You might as well sit down, Terry," Maud said, when Miss Ricardo came in and trailed her white India muslin to an open window "It may be three or four minutes yet before dinner; and you must be tired."
"I'm not tired," Terry smiled. "Besides, if I had been, I've had lots of time to rest. How good that you've got over your headache, dear."
"It always flies away at sunset, if I rest. But I was disappointed not to go with you this afternoon. Do tell me what happened."
"Nothing happened," said Terry, after an instant's pause. She bent over a great bank of pink and white roses, heaped into a bowl. "Friars' Moat is a beautiful old house—so quaint and interesting, though not huge. I like it all the better for that. Milly didn't come home. Something must have kept her. They'd been lunching with Mrs. Forestier at Riding Wood House. Sir Ian seemed to think that Milly might probably have gone to the village to visit some of her numerous protégés."
"Oh! So you didn't see her?"
"No. But I daresay she'll be over here soon."
"Norman says you and she were the most tremendous friends, when you were a young girl. And Nina Forestier, who knew Milly ages ago, says so, too."
"So we were. Milly was very good to me. I loved her dearly. But you see I went out to India when I was eighteen, and all my real life has been lived there. We wrote to each other often at first, of course; but you know how difficult it is to keep up a correspondence, as years go on, between two people so far separated—whose interests are separated, too."
"I don't know. I love writing letters. I've always been good about it, haven't I, ever since Norman took me to India on our wedding trip, and introduced me to his fascinating cousin?"
"Thank you for the adjective!"
"You needn't. You know everybody calls you fascinating. It's the word that describes you best, I think. I told Norman so the first day I met you."
Thank you again." Teresina smiled affectionately at her cousin's wife, whom she liked, though she was not drawn to her as to a congenial spirit.
Maud had the soft charm of many Southern women. She was dark and thin, but not angular, and had pleasant lazy ways which made people feel comfortably restful in her society. No woman in the county dressed more beautifully than she. Her face, pearly pale with the powder which Southern women love, looked extraordinarily young, almost childish, though her curly hair was as white as if it, too, were powdered. She was very proud of that hair of hers, and also of her remarkably long eyelashes, which she used with great effect. Maud had several qualities shared with children and monkeys, one of which was an inordinate but perfectly innocent curiosity; and she caressed or flattered people into doing or saying what she wanted them to do or say. Terry, however, was rather harder to manage in this respect than most of Maud's friends, it appeared; perhaps because she had all her life been used to flattery, or, at least, to receiving compliments.
"Well, what do you think of Sir Ian after these many years?" Mrs. Ricardo went on.
"He has changed, of course. He was a young man when—I saw him last."
"Oh, not so very young, surely. He must have been twenty-eight. You aren't so much more, now, dear."
"I'm thirty-one. And what a difference between a man and a woman! Besides, Ian—Sir Ian had hardly begun to live then. Like mine, his real life has been lived alone."
"I suppose all this means that he's gone off."
Terry laughed, quite naturally. "Does one talk of a man's going off? Anyway, Sir Ian hasn't. He's improved in some ways. He looks very strong and brave; a thorough soldier."
"Do you think him handsome?"
"Ye-es. He might pass for handsome. It's a pity he's out of the Army."
"Milly would have him give it up, when he came into the title and place. I suppose she wanted him all to herself. She's perfectly devoted to him."
"I'm glad. I'm sure he deserves it."
"He shows his feelings less than she. I'm thankful Norman isn't so cold. I couldn't stand it. I'm too impulsive myself."
"I shouldn't have thought Ian so cold," said Terry, and then a slight shade of vexation passed over her face, as if she were annoyed with herself.
Maud caught up the words.
"Wouldn't you? Perhaps that is part of the change in him since you knew each other. I've known him ever since they settled at Friars' Moat, and he always struck me as being very cold and reserved. No doubt he's fond of Milly in his way, though. They're always together. That I envy her."
Terry did not answer. She was not hungry, but she was wondering if dinner would never be announced.
"You knew each other awfully well in India, didn't you?" asked Maud.
"Only for a few weeks."
"Norman believed that Sir Ian was desperately in love with you. Oh, you don't mind my saying that, do you? Norman told me that everybody thought so."
"Everybody! I suppose one person said that."
"I think it was Major Smedley, among others."
"That horror! The worst gossip and tabby-cat who ever lived."
"Perhaps. But there's no harm in saying a man's in love with a girl. Sir Ian wasn't married then."
"I should think not! He hadn't even seen Milly—that is, not since they were both children. He fell in love with her at once, when he was ordered back from India to England, and they met in some romantic way, I suppose. They were engaged a few weeks after, and married within three or four months."
"Yes. It must have been love at first sight, and Milly's charming, of course. I can imagine her being a lovely girl."
"She was. Rather like a young Madonna."
"She's like a Madonna now, and doesn't look a bit more than thirty, though I believe she's older than Sir Ian, if the truth were known."
"A woman's as old as she looks."
"Then you're not more than twenty-four."
"Thank you. I feel a hundred."
"I wish you could have seen Milly to-day."
"Perhaps she'll come over to-morrow. What a beautiful girl Miss Verney is."
"Oh, you saw her? She isn't looking her best now. The course of true love hasn't run smooth."
Terry did not tell Maud that Nora Verney had evidently been crying. She remarked that Sir Ian had said Miss Verney was in sorrow or trouble of some sort.
"Nobody knows what the exact truth is," Maud explained, with relish, "but—I wrote you about Ian Barr, old Sir Ian Hereward's son?"
"Yes. When Sir Ian inherited the title. Yes, it was a strange, sad story. You said he was about twenty then, so he must be twenty-seven now."
"About that. Sir Ian thought it a very hard case, and would have done a lot for young Ian if the boy would have let him. But he wouldn't accept anything except a place as steward, and quite a pretty cottage, where the mother lived with her son till she died. It was good of Sir Ian to make him his steward," Maud went on. "But about six months ago he apparently fell in love with Miss Verney, a girl as friendless and even poorer than he. We thought they were engaged soon after, but suddenly Ian Barr threw over his situation and went away. Nora Verney hasn't been the same girl since then—that is, for the last two months."
"Life is rather tragic, isn't it?" said Terry Ricardo, more to herself than to Maud.
"It's awfully mixed up, anyhow. I wish everybody could be happy, I'm sure—as happy as Nor man and I are. You ought to marry some nice man, Terry."
"I'm too old to marry," answered the smiling woman, who looked scarcely more than a girl.
"You didn't—of course I oughtn't to ask—but your brother-in-law—it was common gossip that he"
"So much nonsense is common gossip especially in India."
"You know he was half mad about you!"
"He's old enough to be my father."
"As if that mattered—with a man! If the law had been different"
"That wouldn't have made any difference with me. The children are the dearest things, though! I could almost have married him for their sakes, rather than leave them. But they're growing up, now. And he's married quite a sweet woman, who isn't interesting, but will be a good chaperon for the girls, I'm sure."
"They say he married her in despair, because you"
"Oh, Maud, what shall I do to you? I shall call for help! Here comes a footman."
"To say dinner's ready."
"Thank goodness!"
"Are you so hungry?"
"I think I must be."