There was a tense silence. The pathos of Claudia’s fate lay heavy upon those who remembered her in the flush of her youthful triumph, and with that other name, too, was the connection of tragedy.
“And Meriel! Meriel wished for happiness,” Francis Manning said slowly. “She was shipwrecked, wasn’t she, when she was sailing to India with some friends?”
“With Geoffrey Sterne and his wife,” Val Lessing told him. “My sister kept up a correspondence with her for some years, and I heard from her. They had both been at school with Mrs Sterne. She appeared to lose her health after the marriage, but while Meriel was paying her first visit it was discovered that the real trouble was—drink! There’s no harm speaking of it now, for later on it became public property, but at the time they hoped for a cure, and the great object was to let no one suspect. She was fond of Meriel and begged her to stay on, in the place of a hired nurse, and Meriel was a lonely creature. She told my sister that she was thankful to find someone who needed her. But she had a hard time. All the trouble, and isolation, and patience, and—Hastiness, for nothing! It was a hopeless case, and grew steadily worse and worse. Meriel left off writing during that time, but my sister said that even before that her letters had grown awfully sad... Then they sailed for India, I suppose to try what the change would do, and there was a collision. Some of the passengers got away in boats and were saved—Meriel refused to leave. Some of the passengers told how they had seen Sterne trying to persuade her; but she would not leave.”
There was another silence. With one accord the guests looked at Mrs Ingram, and she recognised the meaning of that look, shook her head, and held out her hands with a gesture of helplessness.
“You are thinking that my theory has failed, and that Meriel found none of the happiness for which she longed. Yes! it sounds like it. Her youth spent in isolation, with a drunken woman as companion, and the result of it all—failure! I don’t deny it, dear people. I don’t argue. On the surface it’s a pitiful tale, but we know only the surface. No one can read the secrets of Meriel’s heart. She was happy in one thing, at least—that the time of her loneliness was short, and I think there are none among you who will deny that Meriel is happy now. Whatever may be your creeds, you will agree that such brave, unselfish giving is a garnering of wealth for the life that is to come. We may be satisfied that Meriel has come into her kingdom!” She paused just for a moment, then with a challenging smile turned towards Val Lessing, who sat on her right. The conversation had taken a pensive turn, and with the generalship of a born hostess she was ready to switch it back into a livelier channel. Among all the couples who were present none looked more absolutely sane and satisfied than Val and his wife. Val could obviously be trusted to give a cheerful report.
“Well, Val, what have you to tell us? Was fate kind or unkind enough to lead you through any perilous seas before you reached your present very sunshiny haven?”
Val bent his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. There was a tinge of embarrassment on his face; he glanced across the hearth at his wife, and as quickly averted his eyes.
“W-e-ll,” he said slowly, “I think I may say that it was! I had an experience of er—what appeared at the time to be a very—er—acute danger. It lasted for some four or five weeks, and then was—er—relieved in a somewhat remarkable manner. You will excuse the details. I have only to confess that the experience taught me the most useful lesson of my life—to appreciate the blessings of safety! I don’t deny that in the course of that experience there were moments of excitement which I intensely enjoyed, but on the whole I discovered that it is much more agreeable to live in peace.” He paused for a moment, and into his eyes there leaped a delightful smile. “I may add,” he said dryly, “that my wife has relieved me of one great dread. She is good enough to provide a spice of uncertainty, which makes it impossible that I shall ever have to complain of monotony in life!”
Everyone looked at Delia, and Delia flicked her long eyelashes, and stared into space with an expression of angelic innocence. But a dimple dipped in her cheek. Delia at thirty-eight was still a minx. There was more than one man in the room who envied Lessing the possession of his delightful wife!
The general laugh subsided, and Mrs Ingram turned to the Squire’s wife.