CHAPTER XVI
The day of Lady Hereward's death, the wife of the vicar at Riding St. Mary invited Miss Verney to make her a short visit. Those were the exact words used: a "short visit."
It was not comme il faut that a girl like Nora Verney should remain in the house alone with a comparatively young man, like Sir Ian Hereward, now that her "occupation was gone," and the lady, whose paid companion the girl had been, was dead.
Mrs. Haynes was a kind, if extremely conventional woman; but she was middle-aged, and looked years older than her slim, attractive husband the vicar, who was almost too soft-hearted where women were concerned; and naturally it was not expedient to keep such a beauty as Miss Verney too long under the same roof with such an admirer of beauty. Nora knew from the beginning that she could not remain many days at the vicarage, even if she wished to do so, which she did not. And after the second inquest, she could not help noticing a difference in her hostess's manner. Who would like to have as a guest a young person about whom all the world was talking, and at least half the world blaming?
Nora knew as well as if she had been told, how people were asking Mrs. Haynes, in lowered tones: "Hasn't she said anything even to you?" Don't you think she really knows where Ian Barr is?" "Do you suppose he was with her in the woods that day?" and "How awful if a clergyman's daughter should have borne false witness!"
The girl did not want to stay in the vicarage of Riding St. Mary, and did not mean to stay. But—she did not know where to go, or what to do. She guessed, even though no one had said such a thing to her, that, to a certain extent, she was under surveillance. She was supposed to be aware of Ian Barr's whereabouts, and wherever she went she would be watched by the police. She had very little money, because she had been using most of her very generous salary as Lady Hereward s companion, to pay off some debts of her dead father's; yet she was determined not to accept any, if offers of charity should be made to her. As for finding another situation, in the present position of affairs, it would be almost impossible. Nobody, or at least "nobody nice," as Nora put it to herself, would want to employ a girl who had had such notoriety thrust upon her. Even if people did not believe that she had perjured herself, they would scarcely like to take "that Miss Verney of the Hereward murder case" as a companion for themselves, or a nursery governess for their children.
"Nobody would have me, even for a servant," she thought. "And I should be a very stupid servant, anyhow, just to begin with."
By and by happy days might come, even to her, but there was no chance of happiness now, or for a long, long time, if ever.
One day, soon after Lady Hereward's funeral (to which she had not gone), Nora Verney was in her room at the vicarage, when Mrs. Haynes sent up a servant with a message. Would Miss Verney kindly come down to the drawing-room at once?
Miss Verney went, and found Sir Ian Hereward with her hostess.
The girl hung back in the doorway, her flower-like complexion betraying her distress. She looked like a hunted thing, wondering where to find a hiding-place.
"Come in, Miss Verney," said Mrs. Haynes, rising and drawing her guest into the room. "Sir Ian and I have been having a long talk about you. I have told him that my husband and I are delighted to have you with us, while you are looking about, but he"
"Oh, I am going away in a day or two, thank you," Nora said hurriedly. "You've been most kind, you and Mr. Haynes, but I must go up to London"
"I don't think that will do, Miss Verney," cut in Sir Ian. "You have no friends in London, have you?"
"I can apply to an agency," replied Nora, very cold and white.
"My wife wouldn't have liked you to do that," Sir Ian said kindly. "And I shouldn't like it, either. I am going abroad," he added, "and I couldn't leave Friars' Moat without trying to arrange something for your future—something of which my wife would have approved."
"Oh!" exclaimed Nora, and then broke off, biting her lip, her large eyes full of tears. "I—I would rather not have—anybody arrange anything for me," she stammered on.
Mrs. Haynes was somewhat surprised at the girl's manner. She had always found Miss Verney most gentle, most amenable; and now, instead of being grateful to Sir Ian for the interest he took in her, despite his horrible trouble, she seemed almost to resent his having come to inquire and to plan for her welfare.
"I will just run away and leave you to discuss things together," suggested the vicar's wife, with the spasmodic cheerfulness rather irritatingly characteristic of her.
"No!" implored Nora. But Mrs. Haynes looked at the girl reproachfully, raising her eyebrows, and went out, with a slight warning shake of her incredibly sleek head.
Nora was left alone with Sir Ian. It was the first time they had seen each other since the murder of Lady Hereward, except at the inquest.
The girl had not sat down, but stood with her eyes fixed on the ground, as if she did not wish to meet Sir Ian's. They were fixed upon her sadly, for he was thinking how different she had been when first she had come to live at Friars' Moat.
"Won't you sit down and talk to me—or rather, let me talk to you?" he asked.
Nora shook her head, still not looking up. "I like standing," she said.
"How changed you are!" he could not help exclaiming.
"Yes," she admitted.
"What a cruel thing it seems that other people's sorrows should trouble your life! But thank Heaven, you're young. You will forget before long—when you begin to lead your own life."
The girl did not answer, but from under the down cast lashes two tears rolled.
"Poor child!" said Sir Ian. "I haven't come to question you, about anything—or any one—you don't want to speak of. But I have had you very much on my mind since—for the last few days."
"You need not," Nora protested.
"I should be a strange man if I hadn't," he said. "My wife was fond of you. Perhaps you didn't think so, lately; but she was—in her way, very fond of you. She didn't mean to be cruel, ever."
"I have no hard thoughts of her. On the contrary" But Miss Verney could not go on.
"I know what you would like to say, I think," said Sir Ian, very gently. "She left no will, but if she had dreamed that—she might go suddenly, she would have wished to leave a legacy to you. You must let me"
Suddenly the girl looked up, her blue eyes dark and bright. "Don't!" she broke out. "Don't, Sir Ian. It's no use. I couldn't possibly take one penny from you."
"It wouldn't be from me," he argued. "She"
"All the same, I can't take it," Nora repeated.
"But let me persuade you"
"I tell you I would rather die!"
He stared at her in pained amazement. She looked hard and desperate. He had never seen the beautiful young creature in such a mood. But she had gone through a great deal. No wonder her nerves were strained almost to the breaking point.
"You used to like and trust me a little, I thought," he said.
"Used! Oh, Sir Ian, please go, and leave me, before I say anything which I shall regret all my life—and you will regret too."
He looked at the girl strangely, in silence. Then, a light as of comprehension, flashed into his eyes, and his face reddened deeply.
"Good-bye, Miss Verney," he said. And as if on a sudden thought, he held out his hand. "If I come back here it will be only for the inquest. Otherwise I may be gone a long time. Will you shake hands?"
Impulsively, she put both hers behind her, twisting the small, cold fingers together. Then, turning her shoulder to him, she covered her face with her hands and began to sob.
Without another word, Sir Ian went out, and shut the door behind him. He had forgotten all about his hostess, and would have left the house without seeing her, if she had not caught sight of him, passing the half-open door of the study where she sat with her husband. Instantly she pounced upon him, with the beaming smile which was intended to "cheer him up."
"Well?" she said. "I hope you had a satisfactory little chat with that poor dear child?"
"She is very proud," Sir Ian answered evasively. "I'm afraid none of the ideas I had are of any use. I must think of something else. She's in rather a hard position, just now."
"I wish we had a larger house," sighed Mrs. Haynes.
"It's large enough for that poor, pretty little creature to find shelter as long as she likes" the vicar began; but his wife hastily cut him short.
"My dear, you don't understand," she exclaimed. "Men can't. We must have several spare rooms, otherwise we could show no other hospitality. Besides as dear Sir Ian says, Miss Verney is proud. I think, if we ask her to stop a week or two longer, it's all we can do in justice to others."
"I will arrange something, and let you know at once," said Sir Ian. "But whatever we decide to do, my name must be kept out of the thing. Neither Miss Verney nor any one else must know."
"I quite understand," Mrs. Haynes assured him, wisdom and sympathy beaming from her rather bald looking eyes. "And are you really going to leave us shortly?"
"Almost at once," he said. "I—feel I must go, for a time at all events."
Again Mrs. Haynes quite understood and sympathized. She was sure that a change would do Sir Ian worlds of good, but she hoped that it might not be so very long before he felt able to come back to live in his own home and to the friends who had never valued him more than they did to-day.
"I don t know—I don't know," said Sir Ian. "Just now, I feel as if—I could never think of Friars' Moat as home again. But perhaps some time" he broke off, and held out his hand. "Good-bye. Good-bye to you both. I will write—about Miss Verney—before night."
Out of doors he walked with his head held high, as of old, but there was an unseeing look in his eyes. The brown soldier-face was leaner, and less brown than it had been a week ago. Certainly he needed a change.
The vicarage was on the outskirts of the village, far back from the road. A brook ran through the meadow into which the gate opened, and before reaching the lawns and gardens which surrounded the pretty, low-built old house, pedestrians and carriages had to cross a rustic bridge. Sir Ian was on foot, and as he neared the bridge, he was obliged to step aside for an approaching victoria. When he saw that Maud Ricardo and Terry were in it, he stood with his hat off, pale and unsmiling.
If he had hoped that the two ladies would pass on with a bow, he must have been disappointed, for Maud stopped her coachman instantly.
"Oh, Sir Ian," she said, "I'm so glad to see you. Have you heard from Norman?"
"Yes," he returned. "He wrote me a good letter. I haven't answered it yet, but I will."
"He won't expect that. No one does expect answers—to such letters. Is it true that you're going away?"
"Yes," said Sir Ian. "I am going."
"Will you be gone many weeks?"
"I don't know," he said. And then his eyes met Terry's, in a long gaze, which seemed to say something which she yearned to understand, yet could not. It was as if he could not look away; but at last he did. He bent his eyes to the ground, and stood prodding the grass with the ash stick he carried.
"I meant to write before I went," he said. But he did not say which one of the two was to have been the recipient of the letter.
"I—I suppose you wouldn't come and dine—just with Terry and me?" Maud hesitated. "You know how glad we should be if"
"You are very good," he answered, with gratitude which struggled against constraint, "but I—can't. I'm not fit—you'll understand. You'll both understand."
"Yes, we understand," said Terry, speaking for the first time, her eyes very gentle and sweet. He looked up at her again, once more with a desperate appeal which she could not interpret. But it so stabbed her heart that she would not let him go with his message to her unread and unanswered. "Is there nothing I—we—can do for you?" she asked, stammering a little, for perhaps it would seem to him a strange question.
Thank you many times, no," he began, but stopped on a sudden thought. "Yes, there is one thing you could both do, if you would," he went on. "I've just been to see Miss Verney at the vicarage. If you could interest yourselves in her—if you could try to find her a home—a situation of some sort, it would be more than kind—to me, as well as to her. You see, she is all alone in the world, and"
"Isn't she—I thought at one time she was engaged to Mr. Barr," ventured Maud, unable to restrain her curiosity.
Sir Ian's face stiffened. "I am not in her confidence," he said. "In any case, that can't help her much now."
Terry was furious to find herself blushing. A strange, new thought sprang into her mind. Could it be possible that Sir Ian cared for Nora Verney more than he wished any one to know?
The instant after this thought had bored its sharp gimlet-point into her brain, it began to seem not so strange. After all, what more natural? Such things came to pass every day. Miss Verney was young, and beautiful. She had lived in the same house with Sir Ian for months. He had begun by being sorry for her and admiring her, of course. No normal man could help admiring such a pretty girl. The other day, he had said in answer to a question, "Yes, she is very important, anyhow in this house;" or something like that. Nothing that Terry had known of him in the past prevented her from thinking him fickle—nothing, at least, except a curious, irrepressible instinct which existed in spite of reason, and with nothing to feed upon.
A horrid, unworthy jealousy of the lovely young girl turned a leaden screw in Terry Ricardo's breast. She hated herself for it; but it was there, and ached dully, with the same grinding ache which had banished all the joy of life and youth from her girlhood. She would conquer it soon, she told herself, and said aloud: "I promise you that Maud and I will do something for Miss Verney. We are on our way now to return a call of Mrs. Haynes, and we will ask for Miss Verney."
"She may refuse to see you," said Sir Ian, anxiously.
"1 won't take no for an answer," Terry assured him, accepting the responsibility for herself alone, whatever Maud might do. "I promise you to be her friend, and not to be discouraged if she doesn't want my friendship at first. I will find a way to get at her, and to help her: trust me to do it."
"I do," he said. And then, impulsively, "You are a very noble woman. I have more than I can ever thank you for."
After that, as if he half regretted, or were ashamed of this outburst, he shook hands with them both hastily, pressing Terry's fingers so hard that her rings ground into them under her gloves; and then walked away with long strides, as if he were hurrying to catch a train.
"Poor Sir Ian, he looks haunted!" exclaimed Maud, when she had told her coachman to drive on.
Terry shivered a little, but did not speak.
"I shouldn't be surprised if he never came back to live at Friars' Moat," Mrs. Ricardo continued, with interest.
Still Terry did not answer.
"I wonder where he will go?" the elder woman pondered aloud.
Terry was looking at the vicarage, which made a pretty picture now, in the midst of its old-fashioned garden. As she looked, Miss Verney came out through a long window, and turned toward the left, not seeing, or not appearing to see, the approaching visitors.
"There she goes now!" exclaimed Maud. "I don't see what we can do for her, do you?—unless she'd accept a present of money."
"I don't think she would do that," Terry said. "But I have a plan. It's growing in my mind now. Perhaps I'll ask her to go abroad with me for a little while. Maybe she would like that."
"Go abroad!" Mrs. Ricardo repeated, her eyes very wide. "Why, you have only just come to England. You are visiting me."
"I know," said Terry. "And if I go, I'll come back to you—if you'll have me. But—this horrible thing that has happened seems to have done something odd to my nerves. You said Sir Ian looked 'haunted.' Well, I feel haunted. I can't sleep. And I'm such a fool—I look under my bed every night, and into the wardrobe. That isn't like me. I've been thinking for two or three days that perhaps I might run over to France for a fortnight, until the inquest comes on again. Even that would be a change. Don't you think it would be a good way of keeping my promise to Sir Ian, if I invited Miss Verney to go as my companion? Afterward I would find her something else."
"I should like to go with you myself," sighed Maud, "only I can't, because a dull but rich aunt of Norman's is coming for a visit, and she's the kind that alters her will if you alter your plans."
"I'll broach the subject to Miss Verney to-day," Terry said, as the carriage stopped at the vicarage door.
"Perhaps she won't go," suggested Maud.
"I will get her to go," said Terry.