“You’re in time to hear the most delightful story,” Searle began to me as I rejoined him and his host. They were standing before an old sombre portrait of a lady in the dress of Queen Anne’s time, whose ill-painted flesh-tints showed livid, in the candle-light, against her dark drapery and background. “This is Mrs. Margaret Searle—a sort of Beatrix Esmond—qui se passait ses fantaisies. She married a paltry Frenchman, a penniless fiddler, in the teeth of her whole family. Pretty Mrs. Margaret, you must have been a woman of courage! Upon my word, she looks like Miss Searle! But pray go on. What came of it all?”
Our companion watched him with an air of distaste for his boisterous homage and of pity for his crude imagination. But he took up the tale with an effective dryness: “I found a year ago, in a box of very old papers, a letter from the lady in question to a certain Cynthia Searle, her elder sister. It was dated from Paris and dreadfully ill-spelled. It contained a most passionate appeal for pecuniary assistance. She had just had a baby, she was starving and dreadfully neglected by her husband—she cursed the day she had left England. It was a most dismal production. I never heard she found means to return.”
“So much for marrying a Frenchman!” I said sententiously.
Our host had one of his waits. “This is the only lady of the family who ever was taken in by an adventurer.”
“Does Miss Searle know her history?” asked my friend with a stare at the rounded whiteness of the heroine’s cheek.
“Miss Searle knows nothing!” said our host with expression.
“She shall know at least the tale of Mrs. Margaret,” their guest returned; and he walked rapidly away in search of her.
Mr. Searle and I pursued our march through the lighted rooms. “You’ve found a cousin with a vengeance,” I doubtless awkwardly enough laughed.
“Ah a vengeance?” my entertainer stiffly repeated.
“I mean that he takes as keen an interest in your annals and possessions as yourself.”