I
Early Sunday morning Mrs. Trench came to the back door, brushed Nanny
aside as if her redundant bulk had been a wisp of grass in the path,
crossed the immaculate kitchen, and climbed the rear stairs. She knew
that the mistress of Vine Cottage was having breakfast in her bedroom,
and the ultimate degree of privacy was necessary. She was no longer
the gentle Lavinia of those seven charmed weeks. All the softness had
vanished from her countenance, and her voice was flinty as she spoke.
There was no need of mincing words. Mrs. Ascott was in the secret,
and she might as well know the worst. Eileen was guilty. There was no
excuse and no help for it. She had confessed the whole thing to her
father.
“I have been afraid from the first that she was in danger. She is too
young to discriminate, and she was madly in love. Have you told her
brother?”
“Yes. It was lucky for Larimore that that dog of a Hal Marksley was
safe out of town. There would have been murder, and another scandal.”
“And her father?”
“David! He makes me sick. He sits and stares at the carpet as if he’d
been turned to stone. Oh, why did I marry such a dolt! If he would
only whip her--anything to show that he is a man! Mrs. Ascott, you are
a woman of the world. You have had affairs of your own, and have got
through them unscathed. Can’t you help me? Don’t you see that I am
distracted?”
“You may count on me for anything I can do,” Judith told her coldly.