England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Love stories
"Well, I will tell you. When I went to Mrs. Speed's to share rooms
with Connie I was struck by the appearance of the woman. It seemed to
me that I had seen her before, and in some strange way she recalled my
very early childhood. I seemed to recollect the creature years and
years ago sitting in your boudoir and crying. She was wearing a black
dress. It is one of the fragments of memory that cling to one long
after the surrounding circumstances are forgotten. I could not get rid
of the feeling, and I asked the woman about it. She said I must be
mistaken, because she came from a place called Dashwood, near Dashwood
Hall. I doubt if she knew my name. I had my own reasons for not
betraying my identity as you can imagine, but when Mrs. Speed told me
that I knew that I was not mistaken. And knowing that she came from
the old place, I was not surprised to see you here after all."
Lady Dashwood's agitation deepened. Mary could see that she was
greatly moved.
"The woman spoke the truth," the elder lady whispered, "her people
lived on the estate for many generations. And for years I have lost
sight of her. I can't tell you the story, Mary, because it is not all
mine to tell. And this morning I received a telegram from Mrs. Speed
at this address saying that she was in great trouble and asking for an
interview. I did not send any answer to the telegram because I decided
to come in person. When things are explained, they always become more
simple."
"Not in this case," Mary said boldly. "My dear, I have found out
something far more important than that Mrs. Speed comes from Dashwood.
I was going to the kitchen to get a glass of milk yesterday morning
when I heard what sounded like a quarrel in the dining-room between
Mrs. Speed and some man. The man's voice sounded so familiar to me
that I stopped to listen. He was after some letters, the name of
Dashwood was mentioned--one letter was of the greatest importance. And
then the man came out; he did not see me, but I recognised him. Can
you guess who he was?"
Lady Dashwood made no reply for the moment. Her face had grown very
pale and her long, slim hand shook so that the rings on her fingers
shimmered in the light.
"You had better tell me," she ventured to say at length. "I fancy I
can guess, though I had not expected treachery as black as this. The
man was----"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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