The Hermit and the Wild Woman, and Other Stories

point.”

Margaret felt a sudden tension of the heart. “Of course,” she said while a voice within her cried: “He is dead— he has left me a message.”

There was another pause; then Lady Caroline went on, with increasing asperity: “So that—in short—if I could see Mrs. Ransom at once—”

Margaret looked up in surprise. “I am Mrs. Ransom,” she said.

The other stared a moment, with much the same look of cautious incredulity that had marked her inspection of the drawing-room. Then light came to her.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have said that I wished to see Mrs. Robert Ransom, not Mrs. Ransom. But I understood that in the States you don’t make those distinctions.” She paused a moment, and then went on, before Margaret could answer: “Perhaps, after all, it’s as well that I should see you instead, since you’re evidently one of the household—your son and his wife live with you, I suppose? Yes, on the whole, then, it’s better—I shall be able to talk so much more frankly.” She spoke as if, as a rule, circumstances prevented her giving rein to this propensity. “And frankness, of course, is the only way out of this—this extremely tiresome complication. You know, I suppose, that my nephew thinks he’s in love with your daughter-in-law?”

Margaret made a slight movement, but her visitor pressed on without heeding it. “Oh, don’t fancy, please, that I’m pretending to take a high moral ground—though his mother does, poor dear! I can perfectly imagine that in a place like this—I’ve just been driving about it for two hours—a young man of Guy’s age would have to provide himself with some sort of distraction, and he’s not the kind to go in for anything objectionable. Oh, we quite allow for that—we should allow for the whole affair, if it hadn’t so preposterously ended in his throwing over the girl he was engaged to, and upsetting an arrangement that affected a number of people besides himself. I understand that in the States it’s different—the young people have only themselves to consider. In England—in our class, I mean—a great deal may depend on a young man’s making a good match; and in Guy’s case I may say that his mother and sisters (I won’t include myself, though I might) have been simply stranded—thrown overboard—by his freak. You can understand how serious it is when I tell you that it’s that and nothing else that has brought me all the way to America. And my first idea was to go straight to your daughter-in-law, since her influence is the only thing we can count on now, and put it to her fairly, as I’m putting it to you. But, on the whole, I dare say it’s better to see you first—you might give me an idea of the line to take with her. I’m prepared to throw myself on her mercy!”

Margaret rose from her chair, outwardly rigid in proportion to her inward tremor.

“You don’t understand—” she began.

Lady Caroline brushed the interruption aside. “Oh, but I do—completely! I cast no reflection on your daughter- in-law. Guy has made it quite clear to us that his attachment is—has, in short, not been rewarded. But don’t you see that that’s the worst part of it? There’d be much more hope of his recovering if Mrs. Robert Ransom had—had —”

Margaret’s voice broke from her in a cry. “I am Mrs. Robert Ransom,” she said.

If Lady Caroline Duckett had hitherto given her hostess the impression of a person not easily silenced, this fact added sensibly to the effect produced by the intense stillness which now fell on her.

She sat quite motionless, her large bangled hands clasped about the meagre fur boa she had unwound from her neck on entering, her rusty black veil pushed up to the edge of a “fringe” of doubtful authenticity, her thin lips parted on a gasp that seemed to sharpen itself on the edges of her teeth. So overwhelming and helpless was her silence that Margaret began to feel a motion of pity beneath her indignation—a desire at least to facilitate the excuses which must terminate their disastrous colloquy. But when Lady Caroline found voice she did not use it to excuse herself.

“You can’t be,” she said, quite simply.

“Can’t be?” Margaret stammered, with a flushing cheek.

“I mean, it’s some mistake. Are there two Mrs. Robert Ransoms in the same town? Your family arrangements are so extremely puzzling.” She had a farther rush of enlightenment. “Oh, I see! I ought of course to have asked for Mrs. Robert Ransom ‘Junior’!”

The idea sent her to her feet with a haste which showed her impatience to make up for lost time.

“There is no other Mrs. Robert Ransom at Wentworth,” said Margaret.

“No other—no ‘Junior’? Are you sure?“ Lady Caroline fell back into her seat again. “Then I simply don’t see,” she murmured helplessly.

Margaret’s blush had fixed itself on her throbbing forehead. She remained standing, while her strange visitor continued to gaze at her with a perturbation in which the consciousness of indiscretion had evidently as yet no part.

“I simply don’t see,” she repeated.

Suddenly she sprang up, and advancing to Margaret laid an inspired hand on her arm. “But, my dear woman, you can help us out all the same; you can help us to find out who it is—and you will, won’t you? Because, as it’s not you, you can’t in the least mind what I’ve been saying—”

Margaret, freeing her arm from her visitor’s hold, drew back a step; but Lady Caroline instantly rejoined her.

“Of course, I can see that if it had been, you might have been annoyed: I dare say I put the case stupidly—but I’m so bewildered by this new development—by his using you all this time as a pretext— that I really don’t know where to turn for light on the mystery—”

She had Margaret in her imperious grasp again, but the latter broke from her with a more resolute gesture.

“I’m afraid I have no light to give you,” she began; but once more Lady Caroline caught her up.

“Oh, but do please understand me! I condemn Guy most strongly for using your name—when we all know you’d been so amazingly kind to him! I haven’t a word to say in his defence—but of course the important thing now is: who is the woman, since you’re not?”

The question rang out loudly, as if all the pale puritan corners of the room flung it back with a shudder at the