CHAPTER THREE #4
For an instant or two, Verena stared back, still so enmeshed in her own dismal thoughts that she did not even remember that she must drag herself back into that habitual iron control.
But as the expressive face before her began to react to the fact that she was aware of him, a look of concern replacing the amazement, and his lips forming as if they might speak, Verena struggled to master her own countenance.
She felt inside as much turmoil as ever, but the habitual blankness to which she had assiduously trained herself reasserted its stamp upon her face.
“How do you do, Miss Chaceley?” Denzell said, doffing his hat, and watching with close attention as the ravaged features regained their former serenity.
He could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes.
Had he not seen it for himself, he would never have imagined that a face could alter so radically.
But a moment ago, there was a world of distress reflected there.
Now one would have sworn that there could be not a ripple of emotion that would disturb these placid features.
“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 do with 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. Melancholy exactly 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.
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 facade?”
Denzell nodded, frowning at the vision of serenity in his mind. “A facade, yes. Or perhaps a shield.”