But Unice was shaking her head. “It can be nothing of that sort. There is Mrs Peverill to be accounted for, recollect. Whatever it is must concern them both.”
“I devoutly hope you are right,” said Denzell.
“How dreadful, though, to be obliged to hide her unhappiness before us all. She must be very lonely.”
“Fiddle,” came from Osmond, but he was ignored.
It was not an aspect that had previously occurred to Denzell. It did so now, forcibly. “By George, yes, Unice. Poor princess. I wish she was not so determined to keep me at a distance.”
“But she might not do so with me,” suggested his hostess.
“The very thing,” exclaimed Denzell. “You befriend her, softening that icy front, and then I may —”
“So Unice is to pave your way now,” cut in Osmond. “Beware, Unice. You will catch cold at it if you make yourself a party to Denzell’s amours.”
“Amours nothing,” snapped Denzell, with a faint resurgence of that unwanted idea of some other love affair. “I am sorry for the poor girl.”
“Pooh!”
Denzell addressed himself once more to Unice. “I promise you I am not looking to set up a flirtation with her. I don’t think I could now. I am touched, that is all.”
Unice regarded him in some doubt. “Is it, Denzell? Truly?”
Even Osmond, although he grinned expectantly, refrained from comment, merely massaging his rear under the plum-coloured coat-tails and awaiting his friend’s response to this. He was somewhat startled by the vehemence with which Denzell answered, and the serious look in his face.
“If you had but seen her. There was that in her face — no matter its cause — that would have melted the hardest heart. I did not even think of her beauty then.”
Osmond shook his head. “Seems incredible to me. And I tell you what else seems incredible, Hawk. That anyone could change all in a minute, as you say she did.”
“I must say,” mused Unice, “I find it a trifle hard to believe myself. You are quite certain that you did not imagine it, Denzell?”
He threw up exasperated hands. “Do you think I have not asked myself the self-same question? No, I am not certain. Yes, I am, though. I swear to you, it was as if a mask descended upon her face.”
“But, Denzell,” protested Unice, “do you realise what it is you are saying — that her whole manner is just a façade?”
Denzell nodded, frowning at the vision of serenity in his mind. “A façade, yes. Or perhaps a shield.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The shell of Verena’s composure deserted her the instant she noted, with a swift glance backward, that Mr Hawkeridge had continued on his way. Somehow she kept her feet moving, but she was conscious, under the heavy thudding of her heart, that her knees had weakened. Indeed, she felt quite faint, and would have been glad to sink to the ground regardless of the icy clumps that crunched beneath her plodding boots.
To have been discovered thus unshielded was bad enough. That the curious eyes which witnessed the exposure of her innermost thoughts should turn out to be the eyes of Mr Denzell Hawkeridge was disastrous. Last night’s little error might have been brushed aside. But how was she to pass off this dreadful display of emotion? Her private thoughts were no concern of Mr Hawkeridge, but that did not offer any comfort. No one must be permitted to penetrate beneath the mask of her disguise, least of all a man who had professed himself a pretender to her affections.
Her hand crept to her bosom, as if she might by this gesture quieten its uneven pulsing. She had thought herself safe this early on the common, with scarcely a soul about beyond one or two trudging labourers. But no. He must needs venture out at this unseasonable hour — and in this very direction. It was almost as if he had planned it.
Although he had made no attempt to detain her when she chose to move on. The thought calmed her a little. Perhaps she was allowing herself to become unnecessarily disturbed. What had he said? Something about the previous evening. She had been too much agitated to take it in. Had he perhaps a deal more sensitivity than she would have credited?
For she could not pretend to herself that her recovery had been quick enough to prevent him seeing much of her distress mirrored in her countenance. Yet he had said nothing, nor shown that he had noticed. Indeed, she had been too much discomposed — by his very presence, so unexpected — to fathom his reactions.
At least his appearance had been of some use, in driving away those painful memories. Mr Hawkeridge receded from her mind as the thoughts he had interrupted crept back. They had, she supposed, been inevitable after Mama’s long night of tears. Hardly surprising that she had awoken so dispirited. She was still conscious of tiredness, although the fresh air had done much to brush away the cobwebs that had been clinging about her brain. How long had she been out? She had better return, for Mama might have awakened by now and she ought to be there to offer what comfort should be required.
But when Verena slipped into the parlour, she discovered that her mother was up, and since she was in an old muslin chemise of lilac, must have dressed in as much of a hurry as her daughter had.
She was, considering last night’s events, in extraordinary spirits.
“Dearest,” she greeted her daughter on a joyful note, rising from one of the large armchairs before the bay, “I have been on the watch for you.” She seized Verena’s hands in a convulsive grip, and her faded eyes, for once in a glow, were as pleading as her words. “Now you must not scold, Verena, though I know you have cause. I could not confess it to you, but now there is no concealing it from you any longer, and I can only beg — nay,imploreyour understanding, my dearest love.”
Verena stared at her, a chill of apprehension sweeping through her. Mama could not have — oh, dear heaven, surely she could not have… The thought died. Could not have what? The idea shehad almost allowed was rigorously suppressed as too hideous to be borne.
