Chapter XXI A Lie Which Is Part a Truth
“A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.”
—Tennyson.
Mrs. Langham-Greene’s pretty town house possessed a drawing-room as elegant as its mistress, and far less harmful. It was flanked by two bay windows, admirably adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of one’s neighbours, the while one ruminated contentedly on one’s own virtues. Here its fair owner loved to sit on winter afternoons, dispensing excellent tea and gossip: and here one bright January day found her brewing the witching potion for a waiting guest. This was no other than Gerald Amherst, who happened to be painting the lady’s portrait. When the daylight faded she had insisted on his accompanying her home and joining her in a cup of five o’clock tea. The fair widow was not an especial favourite of the artist’s; but his stock of excuses had been exhausted on previous occasions and he had therefore submitted meekly.
Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who wore well, as the saying is. Her figure was straight and supple as a girl of twenty’s and her delicate features had escaped the pinched look which frequently accompanies thinness in a woman of fifty. Her skin had always been colourless and now resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she wore parted in the middle in the Madonna style, was only very slightly flecked with grey. Julia Langham-Greene was a distinguished woman, an interesting woman, an elegant woman. When, at thirty-five, she had first donned widow’s weeds, she had created such a furore that it was many years before she found herself able to relinquish them. However, when a woman reaches forty and finds herself capable of wearing pale blue and scarlet to advantage—she usually does.
Mrs. Langham-Greene was now forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy dress ball attired in Nile green and pearls and look the part of Undine to perfection. Small wonder, then, that she wished to transfer such lasting charms to still more lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained distinction as a portrait painter years before. She smiled delicately on him now, as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones of melted honey whether he took cream or lemon; and pondered inwardly how best to land the shaft she held in store.
“You are too good,” she purred, in response to a perfunctory compliment on his part. “Far too good. Among so many young and pretty girls I fear I must have been quite unnoticed. Miss Reed, for instance! What regular features she has; quite ideal! What a pity that she has so little conversation! and such poor taste in dress. And is it true that her father has fits and that her mother was a house-maid before he married her?”
“I never heard that,” returned Amherst, opening his honest eyes in amazement. “Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but, to my mind, Miss Ladilaw is far prettier.”
“But so uninteresting, don’t you think?”
“Not more so than the majority of very young girls.”
“Still,” pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene, thoughtfully, “she is a nice lady-like little thing. I daresay she will marry young; she is so naive and pretty. It is not likely that she will hang on year after year like that poor, plain cousin of hers.”
“Surely you don’t mean Miss Thayer?”
“I mention no names,” said the widow, archly: then her face dropped, pathetically. “I should not like to say one thing about that poor, misguided girl that might sound unkind,—poor creature, she has enough to bear.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Gerald, flushing angrily.
“Ah, you men are so gallant,” commented the widow, smiling a little sorrowfully. “I am told that the things gentlemen say about Miss Thayer when they are alone could not be repeated in a lady’s hearing.”
“Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene,” replied Gerald, forgetting the hyphened adjunct in his fury, “is an uncommonly first class liar. The things that gentlemen say about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the hearing of St. Peter.”
“My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted a weight from my mind. Is it possible that there are men in this world so—so kindly that they refrain from unpleasant comment on a woman of that kind even when the refining influence of ladies’ society”——
“A woman of that kind! Unpleasant comment! I don’t know what in the—what in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene; and, if you will kindly inform me in as few words as possible”——
“I?”
Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender figure up haughtily and regarded her interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement.
“I? I repeat scandal—I spread scandal about another woman? a woman, too, who, in spite of the fact, that she must be fully thirty, has not yet been able to secure a husband to protect her? Indeed, Mr. Amherst, you must not think that you can drag me into this. You quite forget yourself if you suppose that I am willing to discuss such questionable things. If you choose to delve into these unpleasant matters it shall not be in my drawing-room.”
Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Greene,” he said, courteously, “but was not the matter first referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?”
“If,” said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather sadly, “if I allowed an expression of sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me, I did not expect to be reproached for it, Mr. Amherst.”
Amherst, despite his indignation, began to feel a little abashed. After all, the woman had done nothing but mention Lynn pityingly; but why she or any one else should——
He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly.
“I gained the impression from what you said, Mrs. Greene, that there were unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer. Won’t you tell me what they are?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Amherst,” murmured the lady, distressfully. “I couldn’t, really.”
“Can’t you give me an idea of them?”
“But, Mr. Amherst, you must know something. Why, the very servants talk of it. My butler and housemaid”——
“Yes? Not having the pleasure of either your housemaid’s or your butler’s acquaintance, I am still grievously in the dark. Has anyone else mentioned the matter to you?”
“Why, everyone. I supposed, of course, that you knew, that you had heard of it long ago or, believe me, I should never have mentioned it. Of course if it were another man—if it were even a gentleman—it would not be quite so awful. But a villainous, sickly little foreigner like Ricossia”——
“What?”
“There. You have actually dragged the name out of me,” cried Mrs. Langham-Green, indignantly. “I declare! Men are perfectly horrid. They will not let you be charitable and kind and keep things to yourself. That poor girl! I suppose you will be just as hard on her as all the others. I was so indignant, the other day, with Mr. Parham. He said—but really I had better not repeat it”——
“Stop!”
Amherst rose to his feet, breathing heavily.
“Parham, was it? I’ll remember that,” he said in quiet, metallic tones. “In the meantime, Mrs. Greene, you must tell me what you mean. What is this story?”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Amherst, I cannot spread scandal,” cried his hostess, anxiously. “Do sit down and have another cup of tea. Tea is so soothing when one—I felt just as you do when I first heard it. It does seem so strange that such a plain girl couldn’t conduct herself like a lady. Of course if she were at all good-looking so that people noticed her and sought her out it might—oh, you’re not going, already?”
“Yes, I’m going to hunt up Mr. Parham,” said Gerald, searching blindly for his hat.
“No, oh, no. Oh, but I insist. Well, rather than have you run off like that I’ll tell you the whole truth—all that I know, that is. It seems that—you know that Miss Thayer and Ricossia were always together when he came here first, two years ago. It was quite a joke; such a difference in their ages, you know; and he so handsome and she, poor girl, so plain! and it does seem as though it must be her fault, for certainly he never appeared to encourage her”——
“Go on, for God’s sake!”
“Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to use profane language,” observed Mrs. Langham-Greene with dignity. “Well, where was I? oh, yes! well, when he disappeared from polite society and we were all obliged to give him the cold shoulder because he was so openly depraved—not like some people whom one can know because they keep quiet about it—but he had no savoir faire, that is to say, no shame”——
“Mrs. Greene,” shouted Amherst, “won’t you please skip Ricossia and get to Miss Thayer?”
The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden snake, about to strike. Her green eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself and smiled, subtly.
“Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell the story in my own way. I really cannot be interrupted in this abrupt fashion. I was coming to Miss Thayer. It seems that the wicked girl, instead of dropping him when he was found out, as all the rest of us did, continued to meet him secretly. He evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to pursue her very much, but you know how it is! a woman of that age who has never succeeded in marrying frequently loses all hope and simply doesn’t care what she does; so she used to visit him at night in some awful slum where he lived”—
“What utter absurdity!”
“My dear Mr. Amherst,” said the widow with angelic patience, “you may be sure that I should not readily believe such things of another woman. Unfortunately, however, the misguided girl was seen and recognized, not only by my butler but by people of her own class; people who could hardly believe their eyes and who, in their anxiety not to condemn her rashly, followed her home—at a safe distance, of course. Not that she went home, directly: I am told that her practice was to take a sleigh to a lonely part of Pine Avenue, dismiss it there and walk to her uncle’s house. Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady walking alone after dark. Once, when I first lost my husband, I was compelled by some mischance to traverse two blocks one evening without an escort. Some men passed me and one of them made some remark about the ‘bewitching widow.’ I don’t know how I ever reached home; but, as soon as I did, I retired, immediately. Next morning I sent for my doctor: he advised rest and plenty of light nourishment—what, you’re going? Good evening, Mr. Amherst: so sorry we drifted into these unpleasant subjects. Good evening!”
Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers’ bell.
“No, Miss Thayer is not at home. I don’t believe she will be in to-night, for she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell’s. Certainly, sir: I’ll tell her.”