“How do you do, Mr Hawkeridge?”
Not a tremor. Not the faintest quiver in the calm voice with which she responded.
“You are about early, Miss Chaceley,” he pursued.
“So also are you, Mr Hawkeridge,” she returned, her tone pleasant.
Denzell felt disorientated. How could she do that? Switch in an instant from that rigid pose, a look in her face that was almost — yes, tragic. There was not the least suggestion in her of the storm that must have been in her mind. He had seen it. He could not have imagined it — could he?
Moved to test her out, he smiled. “I confess I had no notion that my luck had changed so radically.”
“Has it?”
Did he detect vagueness in her tone? Perhaps she had not heard what he had said.
“From last night, I mean.”
“Last night.” It was not a question, but a statement. And he thought a shadow crossed the still features.
“Yes, Miss Chaceley. I was too unsure of my welcome to risk a rebuff by approaching you. In any event, there was no getting near you in the Rooms, you know.”
She was not taking it in. Where was the nicely calculated response to depress his pretensions? Oh, she had every outward semblance of normality, but he would swear to it that her mind was elsewhere as she glanced up at the sky.
“It appears the sun may be breaking through.” Her gaze came back to him, and there was once again that faint trace of a disinterested smile on her lips. “If you will excuse me, Mr Hawkeridge, I will resume my walk.”
“By all means,” he agreed, stepping to one side, and leaning on the cane he carried. He had to let her go, although everything in him urged him to hold her there, that he might probe this mystery to its depths.
Yet how in the world was he to effect any sort of communication with her? Was she truly so contained, so much mistress of herself? He allowed her to pass on, and watched her walk away, her quickened pace perhaps the only sign of agitation visible.
Shaking his head in wonder, Denzell turned his steps towards the Ruishton home, all his ideas about Miss Chaceley turned upon their heads. He had been persuading himself otherwise — or trying to — but in reality he had begun to think her dull, even soulless, as he had said to Osmond. But here was a change indeed. Who could have looked upon that face unmoved? Who could have watched those unseeing eyes, reflecting all unaware the distraught message of her heart, and not been conscious of a rush of sympathy?
Seeing her pacing on the common, he had instantly recognised her. Filled with a new determination after the little triumph last night he had approached her, ready with a teasing quip that, if it had not covered her in confusion, should have provoked some response. But by the time he had reached her, her steps had ceased, and he had found her so deep in thought that it was a good many minutes before she had become conscious of his presence.
Minutes in which he’d had ample time both to observe the well of emotion she evidently thrust down in company, and to discover in himself a tug of sentiment that had nothing to dowith the surge of admiration that had attacked him on first setting eyes on her. He had felt something more. Something that had piqued his curiosity, his interest — not merely his sympathetic concern. Miss Chaceley was not what she would have them all believe. He could be certain of it now, after that first image, of laughter and warmth — and now this well of concealed emotion. What was it that had brought about that extraordinary reflection of melancholy?
The word struck him. Unice had been right.Melancholyexactly described it.
On reaching the Ruishtons’ house, and finding his hosts awaiting the breakfast summons in the family saloon, he lost no time in relaying to them what he had seen. “You see now that your instincts were right, Unice. There is something distinctly strange under the calm exterior.”
Fascinated, Unice gazed at him. “Did I not say so? There now, Osmond. And you would have it that it is just my condition.”
“I still say so. Hawk is finding excuses because she will not look at him,” said Osmond from his customary position before the fire.
“I thank you, dear boy, but I had already thought of that for myself. The difficulty about it is that I cannot argue with my own evidence. I saw it, Ossie, as clear as I see you at this moment.”
Osmond’s brows went up. “She’s hit you hard, I perceive.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Denzell. “Unice, I appeal to you. Is it not natural that this whole mystery should intrigue us both?”
“Oh, pay no heed to Osmond,” she said from her position on the sofa. “He has no curiosity. I promise you I am agog, Denzell. What can have happened to her, I wonder?”
“Exactly. So do I wonder. So would anyone of sensibility wonder —” casting a darkling glance at his host, who merely grinned back — “and all I can tell you is that whatever it may be, it distresses her very much.”
“Poor girl,” uttered Unice, with ready sympathy.
“Probably lovelorn,” chimed in Osmond.
“Chaste stars, no,” uttered Denzell, a sinking in his chest.
