She had a slip of paper in her hand and gave it to Mira with these words:
'Here is a list of invitations to the party, my dear. If you will write on the cards we can send them round to my friends this evening.' As she laid the cards on the writing-table she noticed me. 'Who is this gentleman?'
'I have already spoken of him, aunt. He is the gentleman to whom I am engaged. Evan, let me present you to Miss Urban.'
The grand schoolmistress shook hands with me civilly enough. She was a little majestic in offering her congratulations; but I had heard of the manners of the old school and took it for granted that I saw them now. I made my apologies for having presumed to present myself without a formal invitation.
Miss Urban's lofty courtesy paid me a compliment, in reply: 'Excuses are quite needless, Mr Fencote. You might have been sure of your welcome from Mrs Motherwell and from me.'
I looked round the room. No other lady was to be seen. 'Where is Mrs Motherwell?' I asked.
Miss Urban lifted her hand -- a large strong hand that looked capable of boxing little girls' ears -- and smiling sweetly, waved it towards Mira.
There is Mrs Motherwell,' she said.Mira heard her, and never denied it. I looked backwards and forwards from the aunt to the niece and from the niece to the aunt. In the infernal confusion of the moment I presumed to correct the schoolmistress, I said:
'No. Miss Ringmore.'
Miss Urban assumed the duties of correction on her side.
'Mrs Motherwell, formerly Miss Ringmore,' she reminded me. 'Are you doing me the honour, sir, of attending to what I say?'
I was not attending. My eyes and my mind were both fixed on Mira. To my dismay, she kept her back turned on me -- afraid, evidently afraid, to let me see her face. A second opportunity had been offered to her of denying that she was a married woman -- and again she was silent, when silence meant a confession of guilt. It is all very well to say that a man is bound to restrain himself, no matter how angry he may be, in the presence of a woman. There are occasions on which it is useless to expect a man to restrain himself. I was certainly loud, I dare say I was fierce.
'You have infamously deceived me.' I called out: 'I loved you. I trusted you. You are a heartless woman!'
Instead of looking at me, she looked at her aunt. I saw reproach in her eyes; I saw anger in the flush of her face. I heard her say to herself: 'Cruel! cruel!'
The schoolmistress -- Lord! how I hated her -- interfered directly. 'I can't allow you, Mr Fencote, to frighten my niece. Control yourself, or I must ask you to leave the room.'
In justice to myself, I took the woman's advice. The most stupid thing I could possibly do would be to give her an excuse for turning me out. Besides, I now had an object in view, in which I was especially interested. I may have been a brute, or I may have been a fool. The prospect of avenging my wrongs on Mira's husband presented the first ray of comfort which had dawned on me yet.
'Is Mr Motherwell in the house?' I inquired.
To this the schoolmistress replied mysteriously.
'Mr Motherwell is in the last house of all.'
'What do you mean, ma'am?'
'I mean the churchyard.'
'A widow?' I burst out.
'What else should she be, sir?'
I was determined to have it, in words -- and from Mira's own lips. 'Are you a widow?' I asked.
She turned round, and faced me. What thoughts had been in her mind, up to that time, it was impossible for me to divine. I could only see that she was mistress of herself again -- a little pale perhaps: and (I did really think) a little sorry for me.
'Evan,' she began gently, 'what did we say to each other, before my aunt came in?'
She was my charming girl, before her aunt came in. She was my deceitful widow now. I remembered that, and remembered nothing more. 'I don't understand you,' I said.
My face no doubt showed some perplexity. It seemed to amuse her; she smiled. What are women made of? Oh, if my father had only sent me to be educated in a monastery and brought up to the business (whatever it may be) of a monk! She remembered everything: 'I led you to suppose, Evan, that things might happen here for which you were not at all prepared, and I asked you if your confidence in me would take my good faith for granted, without wanting an explanation. And how did you answer me? You even went beyond what I had expected. You declared that you would not even wish for an explanation. Has my memory misled me?'
'No.'
'Did you mean what you said?'
'I did.'
'Will you be as good as your word?'
The aunt and niece looked at each other. I am not skilled in interpreting looks which pass between women -- and it is, I dare say, natural to be suspicious of what we cannot understand. Anyway, I found myself making a cautious reply.
'You have put me to a hard trial,' I said. 'All through our voyage, you have kept back the truth. You even accepted my proposal of marriage, without taking me into your confidence. After the discoveries that I have made in this room, how can I engage to be as good as my word, when I don't know what confessions may be coming next.