CHAPTER XXXVII.
FAIR WOMEN.
Praise from a woman’s lips is sweet to man. As a matter of course, when this incense is offered they look superior and pretend that it is not needful, yet it is none the less agreeable. Kenelm Eyrle had never known how sweet it was. The only woman he had ever loved, Clarice, had not returned his affection, and had never, perhaps, in the whole course of her life uttered one word of praise or homage to him. So that it was pleasant to him to remember how the beautiful Spanish face had glowed with warmest admiration, how the dark eyes had grown brighter as she had called him a hero.
Of course it was all nonsense—nothing but woman’s nonsense—this exaggerated manner of looking at everything—yet it was undeniably pleasant to remember. It did not prevent him from looking forward with something of delight to his next visit to the Dower House. He was not in love with Mrs. Payton, he whose heart lay in Clarice’s grave; he was not in love with her, but he found the companionship of a beautiful and intellectual woman very sweet.
The windows formed a very agreeable pretext for constant visiting. They were very handsome—they were his own design—and he liked to watch the progress made in the work. She said no more about herself. She did not offer, as she had once suggested, to tell him her story. She seemed to have forgotten the half-violent moods, the strange impulses that had led her to say so much to him. She talked no more of the injustice done to women, of the tyranny of men. A calm, sweet, tranquil content was coming over her. He looked at her one day as she stood under the rich, rippling foliage of the lime trees, a golden light falling on her dark, queenly head and beautiful face. It was a moment when she had seemingly forgotten all that made her life dreary. She was watching a bird feed its little ones, and the smile on her face was open and frank as that of a child.
“She cannot be more than twenty,” said Kenelm Eyrle to himself. “There is not the faintest trace of a line on her brow, and her lips are parted just as are the lips of a child. I thought she was older when I saw her first. She cannot be more than twenty. Is she a widow? Has she loved and lost? No; that cannot be. She spoke of unkindness, cruelty, but not of loss. Can she have been betrayed, as the youngest and fairest are at times? No; there is a ring on her finger, and she speaks as one who has been a wife.”
It was a ringing laugh that disturbed his reverie—a light, silvery sound that startled him more than words could tell. It was long since he had heard such a sound, long since such a laugh had echoed through the trees of that silent garden. He looked around in surprise at her. She blushed and smiled.
“I thought I had forgotten how to laugh,” she said. “I am quite as much surprised at myself as you can be at me.”
“What was it amused you?” he asked, quietly. And she showed him the nest with the live little birds in it.
“All the little mouths were open at once,” she said, “and the poor mother seemed so anxious to fill them. I had not seen such a pretty sight for years.”
He smiled, too, but it was rather at her childish delight than at anything else; but as he rode home his thoughts lingered with her.
“What can have happened?” he wondered. “Who can have been unkind to a creature so loving, so beautiful, so tender?”
That same day he rode over to Aldenmere. The contrast between these two fair women always amused and pleased him. Lady Hermione, so sweet, so wise, so womanly, her fair Saxon loveliness so full of calm and serenity, lofty, polished and graceful. Juliet Payton, with her dark, glowing beauty all afire, suppressed passion, genius, poetry, all made subservient to the one thing for which she cared most—the charm of solitude.
For the first time since Sir Ronald’s departure, he saw a cloud on the fair face of the Lady of Aldenmere.
“Have you had news of Sir Ronald?” he said, for knowing how completely heart and soul were absorbed in her husband, he could not understand anything else having the power to sadden her.
“No,” she replied, “not news direct. There was a long article in The Saturday about the expedition, saying it was very probable if they did all they intended and hoped to do they would not return for another year and a half yet. Ronald will be quite bronzed and so greatly changed.”
“Yes; and the prolonged absence, though painful, will do him good,” said Kenelm, anxious to chase the shadow from that fairest face. “Is it that which makes you thoughtful, Lady Alden?”
“No,” she replied, “I have been busy all day searching for what is, I fear, a lost document.”
“What is it?” he asked. “Remember, all your business troubles are to rest on my shoulders.”
“It is a lease, or agreement, or promise, I cannot tell which,” she replied. “You have heard, perhaps, of May Thorne, who used to be waiting maid to poor Clarice?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I remember her.”
“She married an old servant of Sir Ronald’s, a groom. His name was John Conyers. Sir Ronald, I think, valued him very much.”
“I remember it,” said Kenelm, wondering why Lady Hermione spoke so anxiously.
“They have been living at a pretty little farm called ‘The Willows.’ You know the place, near Leeholme. They have been there now nearly three years. But for ‘The Willows’ there are rival claimants. Peter Gaspin, the son of old farmer Gaspin, tells me Sir Ronald promised him ‘The Willows’ when his present lease of the ‘Home Farm’ expires. John Conyers declares there is a written agreement making over to him ‘The Willows’ for life. I am quite puzzled between the two.”
“Rival claimants?” he said. “Ah, well, Lady Hermione, you may be puzzled, if you will, but I cannot allow you to be troubled. What do the rivals themselves say?”
“They talk of going to law, and I know how that would vex Ronald. I want him to find that all has been smooth sailing when he returns home. I am sure a lawsuit would grieve him. That was not the only thing that puzzled me.”
“Let me hear all, then I can advise,” said Kenelm.
“John Conyers annoyed me,” she continued. “He spoke as though Ronald were under some obligation to him—as though he had some secret influence, knowledge, or power which gave him some hold over ‘The Willows.’ Now I cannot believe anything of that kind.”
“Nor can I,” said Kenelm. “I should say myself that Peter Gaspin has the greatest right to the farm.”
“So I should have thought, but John Conyers and his wife both assure me most solemnly that somewhere among Sir Ronald’s papers I shall find a written agreement that they shall have the farm as long as they live.”
“We must look and see. Of course, if there should be any document of the kind, it will settle the question without further trouble.”
And she assented, little dreaming that in doing so she was taking the first step toward a fatal discovery.