A curious faint tremor touched Margaret. It made a change in the pale set of her mouth; it altered her. It was as if something horrible had touched her for an instant.
“Who pushed her?” said Charles in a low, hard voice.
The tremor came again. This time the horror was in her eyes.
“It wasn’t-no-Charles-no!”
“What are you saying?”
“He was the other side of me,” said Margaret in a shaken whisper.
“I didn’t mean Freddy,” said Charles. Then, as he said the name, he almost laughed, “Freddy!”
“Who did you mean? Charles-it was an accident. You don’t think it was anything else?”
“It would have been a very convenient accident. I’m going to tell you something. Perhaps you know it already. I told you once before that I watched a meeting of this society of yours. I heard them speaking about Margot. Grey Mask said that if a certain certificate were found she would have to be removed. He said a street accident would be the safest way. Last night Greta-Margot-babbled at dinner about having found a certificate. Less than three hours later the street accident happened. It didn’t quite come off-I don’t know why.”
“Ask her why.”
“No-I’ll ask you-you must have seen what happened.”
“She slipped.”
“Why did she slip?”
The horror touched her eyes again.
“I don’t know. Charles-I don’t know.”
“I do. She slipped because she was made to slip, because she was pushed. I want to know who pushed her.”
She met his eyes.
“Did you think I knew?”
Charles did know what he had thought. He had endured a horrible nightmare in which anything was possible, an hour in which everything had gone adrift in a mad storm of evil. He was not sure of what he had thought in that hour. He looked at Margaret, and woke up.
The relief was so overwhelming that it carried him away. He did not know that his face was changed. But his mood had changed so much that he did not care where it was taking him. He said,
“You didn’t see anything then?” And as Margaret shook her head, he went on, his voice fallen to a tone of confidence. “You see what it means-they know where she is-they know where to find her. Look at the attempt to get her away last night. And then this accident. You see what it means?”
The change was so sudden that it came near to breaking Margaret’s self-control. He did not wait for an answer. He was the old Charles asking her for help.
“We’ve got to put a stop to it. It can’t go on. Can’t you help me? If you’d just tell me the whole thing.”
“But I have.”
“You said you joined. What happened after that? Did you meet any of these people? Did you do anything? Did they make you do anything?”
“I went two or three times to meetings.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. The first time I just went. There were two men in the room. They both wore masks. They gave me a number-twenty-six-and I came away. I went again about a year later. They asked me to sign another statement. I said I wouldn’t at first; but in the end I did.”
“Did Freddy go with you?”
“No, I went alone. The last time was the time you saw me. Freddy was ill. He said there was a meeting, and he gave me some papers to take. I gave them to Grey Mask and came away.”
“He spoke to you.”
“He asked if Freddy was really ill. He didn’t use his name, you know-only a number.”
“The other man”-Charles spoke eagerly-“the one at the table? He had his back to me, but you must have seen his face.”
“No-he had a mask. I never saw anyone’s face-only masks.”
He made an exclamation of disappointment.
“Well, you see I must get her away. I knocked Archie up after I left here last night, and he says he’ll take her along to his cousin, Ernestine Foster. He says she’ll take her in all right. Of course she won’t know who she is.”
“Until Greta gives herself away.”
“Greta must be told not to give herself away.”
Margaret’s eyebrows went up.
“I know,” said Charles. “But I shall put it across her. She’s not to mention Egbert, or poor Papa, or that blighted school of hers.”
Greta put her head round the door and uttered a cry of rapture.
“Oh, Charles! How lovely! Have you come to take me out? Is it fine? Where are we going? I want to drive the whole way to-day. But you’ll have to wait-I’m not dressed.”
“So I see.”
Greta came farther into the room. She wore a pale blue kimono; her feet were bare.
“This is Margaret’s dressing-gown. Isn’t it pretty? It’s one she had ages ago in her trousseau-Isn’t it, Margaret? She wouldn’t quite say it was; but I’m sure it was really, and she didn’t say ‘No.’ Of course the colours were brighter before it was washed. I’m going to have one just like it.”
“Go and dress, baby,” said Margaret. “Charles has come to take you away.”
Charles found the light words tragic. The tragedy was in Margaret’s voice and eyes.
Greta gave a little scream.
“Where are we going, Charles? Where are you going to take me? Are you going to take me right away?”
She held his arm, tugging at it as a child might have done.
“I’m not going to take you like that. Go and dress. You’re going to stay with a cousin of Archie’s for a bit.”
“How frightfully exciting! But I don’t want to go away from Margaret. Won’t she have me any longer?”
She left Charles and flung her arms round Margaret.
“I don’t want to go away. Even if it’s a little bit dull all the time you’re out, I’d rather stay here-I would really. Why are you sending me away? Are you angry?”
Margaret shook her head. Just for a moment she could not speak.
“Charles, ask her to let me stay!” The bare arms were round Margaret’s neck. “Margaret, I do love you! And you saved my life yesterday-Charles, she really did. So she ought to keep me. I should have been right under that horrible bus if she hadn’t simply clutched me.”
“What?”
“She clutched me and pulled me back. I told you someone pushed me. And if Margaret hadn’t grabbed me, I should have gone right under the bus-I know I should.”
Charles did not look at Margaret. He experienced some tumultuous emotions. He heard Margaret say, “I must go, or I shall be late. Greta, go and dress.”
“You haven’t had any breakfast, Margaret.”
“I can’t stop.”
“Oh-” said Greta.
Margaret had detached herself and was at the door. “Go and dress,” she said, and went out.
CHAPTER XXXII
The sun came out later on; the October air glowed in an enchanting mixture of warmth and freshness. It was strange to see the trees hung with yellow instead of green.
Margaret had a busy morning. Women buy new hats when the sun shines. A stout lady with red hair bought six hats one after the other. She did not try them on-that was Margaret’s business; she had to present Mrs. Collinson Jones with a pleasing picture of the hat she meant to buy. If it looked well on Margaret, she bought it with a magnificent disregard of her own contours and complexion. All the hats were very expensive.
When Mrs. Collinson Jones had departed, Margaret had a helpless bride and her still more helpless mother on her hands. Neither Mrs. Kennett nor Miss Rosabel Kennett had the very slightest idea what they wanted. They were both pretty, fair, fluffy, and ineffective. Rosabel tried on eighteen hats, and Mrs. Kennett always murmured “Sweet!” But in the end she and her daughter departed without having made a purchase.
The Kennetts were succeeded by Miss Canterbury, who wanted something which neither Sauterelle nor any other modern shop was likely to have.
“I don’t care about these hats that hide the ears-they swallow you up so. I reme
mber a most charming hat I had before the war, trimmed with shaded tulle and ostrich feathers. I wore it to the Deanery garden-party, and it was much admired.”
Margaret tried to picture the tiny bent creature in a cart-wheel hat weighed down with trimming. She offered a neat small velvet shape.
“Would madam care to try this?”
“Feathers,” said Miss Canterbury peevishly.
“If madam liked, she could have a feather mount at the side.”
Miss Canterbury waved the shape away.
“Too small-too trivial. No, that one’s too large for me. No, I don’t care for velvet. The hat I was telling you about was made of the most charming crinoline straw, and the tulle was put on in big bows under the ostrich feathers-a most charming effect.”
“Perhaps we could make you a hat, madam?”
“No-I shouldn’t care for that. It’s really very disappointing not to be able to get an ordinary black hat with feathers in Sloane Street.”
After Miss Canterbury, a charming round-about little lady with plump rosy cheeks and crisp grey hair.
“Can you match this in a velour?”
Margaret took the scrap of crimson velvet ribbon. “I’m not sure, madam. I’ll show you what we have.”
As she crossed the room, one of the other girls spoke to her.
“Miss Langton, there are some new velours just come in.”
She came back to the little plump lady, and found herself scrutinised. The red hat was tried on; but the little lady’s attention seemed to wander.
“Very nice-yes, very nice indeed. Yes, I’ll take it. Did I hear someone call you Miss Langton just now?”
Margaret smiled and said, “Yes?”
The little lady hesitated and dropped her voice.
“Is your name Margaret? No, it can’t be. But the name- and I thought I saw a likeness-I used to know-”
“My name is Margaret Langton.”
“Not Esther Langton’s daughter! Oh, my dear, I’m so pleased to meet you. Your mother was a very great friend about a hundred years ago when we were all young and foolish-oh yes, a very great friend. Only you won’t ever have heard of me, I expect. My name is Mrs. Ravenna, but I used to be Lesbia Boyne.”
Margaret was so much startled that for a moment she wasn’t in Sloane Street at all. The hats, the showroom, weren’t there any more. She was standing at the door of another room, a very long-ago room indeed. Her mother was there, and a little lady in a lilac dress. Her mother said, “Lesbia-the child!”
She shut her eyes for a moment, and opened them to see Mrs. Ravenna looking at her with an air of concern; she held her head a little to one side, and had the air of a plump, kind bird.
“I startled you-I’m afraid I startled you.”
“A little,” said Margaret-“just a little-because I have heard of you-my mother spoke of you-when I was a child.”
“Not since then? Now that’s too bad! But we must make up for lost time. I’d like to have you come and lunch with me, right away if you can. Can you manage it? You’re not engaged?”
Margaret shook her head.
“Then I’ll go and speak to Madam. Just you wait.”
She went off smiling, and in a minute was back again.
“I’ve made love to her very successfully. I told her it was a very romantic meeting, and she says you may take an extra half hour. So we can have a real, good talk. We’ll come along to my hotel. I’m at The Luxe.”
Mrs. Ravenna was very comfortably installed at The Luxe, with a private sitting-room.
“My dear, you look starving,” she said to Margaret. “Now tell me, are you working too hard? Is that it? Serving tiresome women with hats they don’t really want? I’m one of them, and my conscience pinches me. You’ve no business to look so pale. I remember a little girl with a very nice bright colour.”
“I was late, and I hadn’t really time for my breakfast,” said Margaret.
Mrs. Ravenna was most dreadfully shocked.
“You lean right back and close your eyes, and don’t you say a single word till you’ve had some soup. You look positively frozen.”
The soup was deliciously hot. When Margaret had drunk it and was eating fish which tasted like some pleasantly new variety, Mrs. Ravenna removed the embargo on conversation.
“That’s better! I couldn’t talk to someone that I was expecting to faint all the time.”
Margaret laughed.
“I never faint.”
“I should faint in a minute if I didn’t have my breakfast. It would be very good for my figure, but I couldn’t do it-I don’t bother about it any more. If I bothered, I shouldn’t be so plump. But I can’t do with being bothered-it’s so worrying. And I’d rather be plump than have my face all over lines. Why, I know women that spend every morning in a beauty parlour, and they’ve got twice as many lines as I have. Of course it’s lovely if you can have it both ways-no lines and a willowy figure. But that’s only for the very, very few. Now your mother-”
Margaret laid down her fork.
“Yes, do tell me about my mother.”
“Oh, she was looking very well. Of course I only saw her for a moment.”
“Mrs. Ravenna!”
“Yes?” The little lady put her head on one side.
“Please-what did you say?”
“I said that Esther was looking very well-and so she was. My dear, what’s the matter?”
“You haven’t heard-” Margaret had to force her voice.
Mrs. Ravenna was plainly startled.
“What! You don’t mean! Oh, my dear girl! When?”
“Six months ago.”
Mrs. Ravenna sat up straight.
“Margaret Langton, you’re not telling me your mother died six months ago?”
Margaret said, “Yes.”
“Your mother-Esther Langton-Esther Pelham?”
“Yes.”
“But I saw her.”
“Where did you see her?”
“It was only for a minute, but I made sure. My dear, you don’t know how you’ve shocked me. I did see her.”
Margaret held the arms of her chair.
“Mrs. Ravenna-won’t you tell me-what you mean?”
“I thought I saw her-and you tell me-six months ago? Impossible! Oh, I can’t believe it! She looked so well.”
Margaret shut her eyes for a moment. The room was turning round. Mrs. Ravenna’s voice came from a long way off.
“My dear, how cruel of me! But I didn’t know. I certainly thought I saw her.”
She opened her eyes.
“My mother died six months ago in Hungary. They were travelling-for her healths-and she died.” Margaret’s voice was slow and low.
Mrs. Ravenna gave a little sharp cry.
“Six months ago? But I saw her! My dear, I saw her, only a fortnight ago in Vienna.”
“I-Mrs. Ravenna!”
“My dear, I thought I saw her.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“I hadn’t a chance. I was ever so vexed. You can’t think how vexed I was. My train was just starting. I was leaning out of the window waving good-bye to the friend I’d been staying with, and I saw Esther in the crowd.”
Her grief closed down on Margaret’s heart.
“It was a mistake.”
“I suppose it must have been. But, my dear-such a resemblance. She was standing looking up with the light shining on her. I thought how little she had changed. I waved to her, and I called out, and I thought she recognized me.”
Margaret made a little sound of protest.
“It was a mistake.”
“I thought she recognized me. You know how a person looks when they know you-she looked like that. And then I was ever so disappointed because she didn’t wave to me or anything-she just turned and walked away. I was ever so disappointed.”
“It was somebody else,” said Margaret, with sad finality.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Charles did his duty by Miss Greta Wi
lson for a couple of hours. He let her drive and entertained her to the best of his ability. She talked continuously.
“Margaret was rather odd this morning. Charles, didn’t you think Margaret was rather odd this morning? I did. Do you think she was angry because of my going away?”
“I think she’ll be able to bear up without you.”
“What a frightfully horrid thing to say! I don’t like you a bit when you say things like that. Archie never says things like that.” She giggled and swerved dangerously right across the road. “Charles, why does it do that?”
Charles kept a steadying hand on the wheel.
“Keep your eye on the road,” he said sternly.
“I only looked at you,” said Greta in an injured voice. “Archie likes to have me look at him. Yesterday, when I looked at him, he said I’d got eyes like blue flowers-he did really.”
“You weren’t driving a car. You keep your eye on the road.”
“I am keeping it on the road. Archie likes me to look at him. He did say that about my eyes. Are they like blue flowers, Charles?”
“You keep ’em on the road,” said Charles firmly.
Greta recurred to Margaret.
“You didn’t answer about Margaret. Shall I like Archie’s cousin? Is she like Archie? I don’t think Archie would make a pretty girl. Do you? Do you think Margaret is pretty?”
“No,” said Charles.
He had often thought her beautiful.
“You’ve known her a frightfully long time, haven’t you? You know, she won’t tell me whether she was ever really engaged or not. But I think she must have been. Don’t you? Of course I was only teasing her about the blue dressing-gown. But I think she must have been engaged really, and perhaps there’s some frightfully romantic reason why she isn’t married. Sometimes I think it’s rather ordinary to get married, and that it would really be more romantic to have a hopeless attachment. Perhaps Margaret has got a frightfully romantic hopeless attachment. Do you think she has?”
“Among the Drastik Indians women who ask questions are buried alive,” said Charles.
Greta gave a little shriek and did another swerve.
“Charles, it did it again! Why does it do it?”
Grey Mask Page 16
