“She used to come here to school, and—it happened last summer before I came; but they often talk of it—she was drowned.”
“Oh, how sad! Did she fall into the water?”
“She was going to be married, and her lover and his cousin were shooting, and they saw her standing on the lock, and Mr Crichton—”
“Who?”
“Mr Hugh Crichton. He lives at Redhurst, don’t you know? She was going to marry his cousin, Mr Spencer. Well, they were shooting, and—it was very awful—but Mr Crichton’s gun frightened her, and she fell into the water and was drowned.”
Violante sat in the shadow. Her dead silence might have come from her interest in the story.
“That’s not the worst. They say Arthur Spencer told him not to fire—and he did—”
“Was he jealous?” suddenly cried Violante.
“Good gracious, signorina! What a horrid—what a ridiculous idea! How foreign! Of course not. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He was half mad with grief. I’m sure now he looks as if he couldn’t smile—and Mr Spencer has been abroad ever since it happened—last August.”
Violante sat in her corner, her heart beating, shivering, her face burning. “He is near—” Then that wild foolish thought of the poor foreign opera-taught girl gave place to a pang of shame, and then, “He is unhappy.” She had forgotten herself—forgotten where she was; when Miss Florence came slowly into the room in her hat and jacket. She came and knelt down by the fire, looking much graver than usual.