The Real Charlotte - Edith Somerville [185]
Charlotte had, in fact, by this time, compelled Christopher to give her his whole attention. As he turned towards her again, he admitted to himself that the thing looked rather serious, though he determined, with the assistance of a good deal of antagonistic irritability, to keep his opinion to himself. This feeling was uppermost as he said: “I have never had the least reason to feel a want of confidence in Mr. Lambert, Miss Mullen, and I certainly could not discredit him by going privately to M’Donagh to ask him about the fine.”
“It’s a pity all unfaithful stewards haven’t as confiding a master as you, Sir Christopher,” said Charlotte, with a laugh. She felt Christopher’s attitude towards her, as a man in armour may have felt the arrows strike him, and no more, and it came easily to her to laugh. “However,” she went on, correcting her manner quickly, as she saw a very slight increase of colour in Christopher’s face, “the burden of proof does not lie with James M’Donagh. Last November, as you may possibly remember, my name made its first appearance on your rent-roll, as the tenant of Gurthnamuckla, and in recognition of that honour,”— Charlotte felt that there was an academic polish about her sentences that must appeal to a University man— “I wrote your agent a cheque for one hundred pounds, which was duly cashed some days afterwards.” She altered her position, so that she could see his face better, and said deliberately: “Not one penny of that has been credited to the estate! This I know for a fact.”
“Yes,” said Christopher, after an uncomfortable pause, “that’s very—very curious, but, of course— until I know a little more, I can’t give any opinion on the matter. I think, perhaps, we had better go round to meet Captain Cursiter—”
Charlotte interrupted him with more violence than she had as yet permitted to escape.
“If you want to know more, I can tell you more, and plenty more! For the last year and more, Roddy Lambert’s been lashing out large sums of ready money beyond his income, and I know his income to the penny and the farthing! Where did he get that money from? I ask you. What paid for his young horses, and his new dog-cart, and his new carpets, yes! and his honeymoon trip to Paris? I ask you what paid for all that? It wasn’t his first wife’s money paid for it, I know that for a fact, and it certainly wasn’t the second wife’s!”
She was losing hold of herself; her gestures were of the sort that she usually reserved for her inferiors, and the corners of her mouth bubbled like a snail. Christopher looked at her, and began to walk away. Charlotte followed him, walking unsteadily on the loose stones, and inwardly cursing his insolence as well as her own forgetfulness of the method she had laid down for the interview. He turned and waited for her when he reached the path, and had time to despise himself for not being able to conceal his feelings from a woman so abhorrent and so contemptible.
“I am—er—obliged for your information,” he said stiffly. In spite of his scorn for his own prejudice, he would not gratify her by saying more.
“You will forgive me, Sir Christopher,” replied Charlotte with an astonishing resumption of dignity, “if I say that that is a point that is quite immaterial to me. I require no thanks. I felt it to be my duty to tell you these painful facts, and what I suffer in doing it concerns only myself.”
They walked on in silence between the lake and the wood, with the bluebells creeping outwards to their feet through the white beech stems, and as the last turn of the path brought them in sight of Francie and Hawkins, Charlotte spoke again:
“You’ll remember that all this is in strict confidence, Sir Christopher.”
“I shall remember,” said Christopher curtly.
An hour later, Pamela, driving home with her mother, congratulated herself, as even the best people are prone to do, when she saw on the gravel-sweep the fresh double wheel tracks that indicated that visitors had come and gone. She felt that she had talked enough for one afternoon during