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An unfamiliar and sleepy voice answered him from her house. "Will you put me on to Mrs. Croyle?" he requested, and the reply came back: "Mrs. Croyle went away with her maid last night." "Last night?" cried Hillyard incredulously. "But I did not leave the house myself until well after six, and she had then no plans for leaving." Further details, however, were given to him. Mrs.
He had his sympathies for Stella Croyle, but her hopes held no positive promise of happiness for either her or Harry Luttrell a mere flash and splutter of passion at the best, with all sorts of sordid disadvantages to follow, quarrels, the scorn of his equals, the loss of position, the check to advancement in his profession. Here, on the other hand, was the fitting match.
Jenny Prask, she was called, and she spoke with just a touch of pleasant Sussex drawl. "Mrs. Croyle has not been sleeping well, and she looked for a good night's rest in country air." The maid was so healthful in her appearance, so reasonable in her argument, that Hillyard's terrors, fostered by solitude, began to lose their vivid colours. "I understand that," he stammered. "Yet, Jenny "
Jenny was busy with Stella Croyle's hair; and the result satisfied her. "There won't be anybody else to-night, madam," she said. "Won't there, Jenny?" said Mrs. Croyle, incredulously. "There'll be Miss Whitworth." Jenny Prask sniffed disdainfully. "Miss Whitworth! A fair sight I call her, madam, if I may say so. I never did see such clothes!
I am quite impossible! I have gone my own way. I am one of the people you hate one of the Undisciplined." Stella Croyle hardly knew in her passion what she was saying, and Luttrell could only wait in silence for the storm to pass. It passed with a quickness which caught him at loss; so quickly she swept from mood to mood. He heard her voice at his ear, remorseful and most appealing.
But he attributed these hopes and thoughts with some confidence to Stella Croyle until she turned and showed him her face. The sympathy and gentleness had gone from it. She was white with passion and her eyes blazed. "Why do you lie to me?" she cried. "I met Harry this morning." Hillyard was more startled by the news of Luttrell's presence in London than confused by the detection of his lie.
She moved to a table and poured out for Hillyard a whisky-and-soda. "My question was thoughtless," he said. "I did not mean that you should answer it as you did." "I preferred you to know." "I am honoured," Hillyard replied. Stella Croyle sat down upon a low stool in front of the fire. Hillyard sank into one of the deep-cushioned chairs.
"Where is Mrs. Croyle now?" he asked, and he was as white as the tablecloth in front of him. There was no further movement towards the door. Slowly the men resumed their seats. A silence followed in which person after person looked at Stella's empty place as though an intensity of gaze would materialise her there. Miranda was the first bravely to break through it.
But it did not matter in the least. For Stella Croyle was not listening. All this was totally unimportant. Men always went about and about when they had difficult things to say to women. Her eyes never left his face and she would know surely enough when those words were rising to his lips which it was necessary that she should mark and understand. Meanwhile her perplexities and fears grew.
He was more and more out of his depth, and these were waters in which expert swimming was required. "I don't understand. Do you say that somebody saw Mrs. Croyle after she had dismissed you for the night?" "Yes, sir." "Will you please explain?" The explanation was as simple as possible. Jenny had first fetched a book for her mistress from the library, before the house-party left for the ball.
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