The Intrepid Miss Haydon

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  The death of his childhood friend, George Haydon, was deeply felt by Sir William, so that he was only too willing to render any service he could to the widow. She had been left in extremely comfortable circumstances and had no material wants; it was simply a matter of advice and reassurance on his part. He therefore continued to visit her with his family as frequently as before, and to make the Haydons welcome at Chyngton Manor. This happy intercourse had continued until three years ago, when Sir William and his wife had been tragically killed in a carriage accident.

  At that time, John Beresford, the younger son, was a second lieutenant in the Royal Navy and frequently away at sea. Richard, the elder by two years, inherited Chyngton Manor and the title. He soon discovered that he had also stepped into his father’s role of counsellor to Mrs Haydon. His nature being amiable, he cheerfully took on the charge; becoming a frequent visitor to the house in Tunbridge Wells and dispensing advice and giving support whenever Mrs Haydon fancied herself in need of either or both. If at times he could have wished to appear in another, less prosy light, to one member at least of the family, he did his best to suppress the feeling.

  There had been only one point on which Mrs Haydon had not accepted Sir Richard’s advice, and that concerned her son. Laurence Haydon was at present a high-spirited youth of eighteen with nothing to occupy him but whatever sporting activities offered locally, or else protracted visits to former schoolfellows who lived elsewhere. What he most ardently desired was to take up a commission in the army, and Sir Richard thought this the very thing for him.

  But the mere mention of such a scheme had thrown Mrs Haydon into a spasm.

  “The army!” she moaned, when frequent applications of sal volatile had restored her powers of speech. “Oh, no, no, it’s not to be thought of! My only son — the head of my little family! And with this dreadful war — yes, I know there’s a peace at present, but who can tell if that will last? No, pray, dear Richard, don’t expect me to consider such a thing for one moment, I implore you!”

  Laurence, a sturdy youth obviously built for an active life, made a gesture of disgust.

  “Good God, Mama, what a piece of work over nothing! Why, I might just as easily come to grief in the hunting field, or out on a day’s shooting!”

  “Oh, dear, what is to be done with him? He lacks a father’s guidance, alas! You are so good, dear Richard — go and reason with him, and tell him I think only of his welfare.”

  Sir Richard hesitated.

  “I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he said, at last. “But I feel impelled to point out that the welfare of a young man extends to more than his physical well-being. A high-couraged lad like Laurence needs to prove his manhood by engaging in exploits which may seem dangerous to a woman, but when you stop to consider that all his friends are permitted this necessary freedom, I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to throw the least rub in his way.”

  “Oh, no, true, very true! He must take part in all the usual sporting activities of gentlemen, I do see that. But as to purchasing a commission for him — no, I cannot bring myself to agree to that, at present. Perhaps when he’s older — after all, he is only just eighteen and the merest boy, though he doesn’t like to think so, of course. Pray, say no more about it, for it quite distresses me!”

  Seeing the futility of further argument at that time, Sir Richard desisted, later consoling the disgruntled Laurence with the thought that his mother might gradually be won over when she had been given time to accustom herself to the notion.

  This discussion had taken place a few months since; and during the present visit of the Beresfords, Laurence once more urged Sir Richard to have another touch at Mama, as he phrased it.

  The three gentlemen were standing about in the parlour which led off the dining room, awaiting the appearance of the ladies before going in to dinner.

  “It’s no use my trying to persuade her,” Laurence continued disgustedly. “I’m sure I’ve nagged at her until I’m blue in the face — Corinna, too, for she’s a rare sport and does her utmost to back me up. But when m’ mother gets out that cursed smelling bottle of hers and asks me if I want to bring her down in sorrow to the grave, and such like gammon — well, I ask you, what can a fellow do?”

  “Take a glass of sherry,” advised Sir Richard promptly, as a footman appeared with a tray of glasses.

  Laurence laughed reluctantly as he accepted a glass.

  “If that ain’t just like you, Richard, turning everything off with a jest! But it’s no jesting matter as far as I’m concerned, y’ know.”

  Sir Richard sipped his sherry. “Believe me, I do know, Laurie, and I’ll try again when I think the time’s ripe. One cannot rush your mother, as I’m sure you’ve realised by now for yourself.”

  “No, but I don’t think you quite understand how blue-devilled I feel sometimes, kicking my heels here at home with a parcel of females! I wish I’d had a brother — you two can’t begin to know how lucky you are!”

  Sir Richard and John exchanged grins. “Well, as to that—” began John.

  “No need to tell me you’ve come to cuffs now and then,” interrupted Laurence with a laugh. “Corinna and I do, too, though for the most part we deal famously — she’s a right one, for a girl,” he added, a shade patronizingly. “I needn’t tell you she’s no bread-and-butter miss.”

  “And they say eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves,” put in Corinna, who had that moment entered the room with Lydia. “No, I don’t think you need to explain my character to these two, Laurie, since we’ve known each other forever.”

  Sir Richard turned to look at her. She appeared at her most demure in a gown of white sprigged muslin, but the effect was belied by the mischief in her eyes.

  “Gad, no, for they’ve had a taste of your tongue often enough, my girl!” chuckled Laurence. “Still, there’s no harm in you, I’ll say that.”

  Corinna swept him a mocking curtsey. “Oh, la, sir! You are too good!”

  “Foolish children,” chided Lydia, as she moved closer to her husband. “John, I suppose Richard will have told you that Corinna is to come with us to France?”

  “Is she, by Jove?” asked Laurence, unable to keep a note of envy out of his voice.

  “Yes, I’m delighted to hear it,” said John, as he placed an arm about Lydia’s slender waist. “Tell you what, Laurie” — turning to the youth — “why don’t you come along, too? Give you something to do for a few months, and the more, the merrier, eh? What d’you say? Would you like it?”

  Laurence lost no time in expressing his thanks, rendered almost incoherent by excitement.

  They discussed the proposed expedition at some length during the course of the meal.

  “Tell you what, Richard,” said John presently, “how would it be if we went by way of Rouen and looked up Patrice Landier? I told you I had a letter from him some months back in which he said that he hoped we might meet again now that our countries are at peace. He’s a good chap, even though he did belong to the wrong side.”

  “Yes, a capital notion,” agreed Sir Richard.

  “Landier?” asked Mrs Haydon. “Do I know him?”

  “He was a lieutenant in the French navy,” explained Sir Richard, “and John fished him out of the sea after a naval engagement — saved his life in fact, for he’d been knocked senseless by a falling timber. He was brought to England as a prisoner on John’s ship, and the two struck up a friendship on the voyage. Afterwards he was detained in Lewes for a time, and we both visited him until he was later returned to France.”

  “Is he still in the French navy?” Laurie asked.

  John shook his head. “His father owned a banking business in Rouen and Landier has now resigned his commission to assist in it.”

  Laurence’s expression showed that he could not think highly of a man who preferred commerce to active service; but a warning look from Corinna prevented him in time from expressing this opinion. Sir Richard intercepted the exchange of glances, and his lips tw
itched in amusement.

  “I wonder what the ladies at the French court are wearing?” asked Mrs Haydon. “We were always used to consider French fashions as being the latest in modality when I was young, but perhaps that is no longer so, with that dreadful creature Napoleon ruling the court. It is all very sad, to be sure.”

  She sighed.

  “Why, Mama, that’s one reason why I wish to go,” explained Lydia. “I’ve heard all kinds of rumours, such as that they dampen their muslins in order to make them cling to the figure! I can’t rest until I know the truth of this!”

  “Good heavens, I trust you and Corinna won’t follow their example!” exclaimed Mrs Haydon, quite shocked. “Apart from the immodesty of such a proceeding, only think of the hazard to your health! It would surely bring on an attack of the rheumatics!”

  “Oh, Mama!”

  Both girls collapsed with laughter in which their two younger sisters joined.

  “You may laugh,” said their mother ominously, “but I can assure you that it’s no laughing matter to be crippled with the rheumatics. John” — turning to him in appeal — “you surely would not permit Lydia to indulge in any such foolishness?”

  “As to that, ma’am, I dare say she’ll go her own way,” he replied, smiling at his wife, who was still laughing.

  “Never fear, Mama,” said Lydia reassuringly. “I’ve no intention of carrying modality to such lengths. I imagine it would be vastly uncomfortable to go about in wet garments, in any event.

  “I have an idea,” she continued, changing the subject. “Would you like me to bring you back a bottle of French perfume?”

  It was not to be expected that any female could resist this offer; and it succeeded in diverting Mrs Haydon’s thoughts away from the possible hazards of the proposed expedition.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The pale sunlight had been warm on her back as she walked through the village, her basket on her arm; but now, as the door of the house closed behind her, the air struck chill and she shivered.

  “He’s been asking for you,” said the elderly woman dressed in peasant black who admitted her. “Give me the shopping. You’d best go straight up.”

  The girl handed over the basket. She was slight but shapely, with dark, glossy hair and eyes that were almost black in an oval, fine-boned face that wore a deceptive air of serenity. She mounted the stairs and softly entered a room where the door was ajar. As softly, she moved over to the bed and stood looking down at the man lying there.

  His sparse white hair clung damply to his high, domed forehead and his eyes seemed deeply sunk into a face lined with suffering. Yet now he lay quietly in the bed as if in slumber.

  After a moment he stirred, looking up at her with clouded eyes which cleared momentarily as they rested on her beloved face.

  “You are there, ma petite.”

  His voice was a mere thread of sound.

  She placed her firm young hand over his wrinkled one as it lay inert on the coverlet.

  “Yes, mon oncle, I am here. I shall stay with you now, so do not distress yourself. Try to sleep.”

  He gave a faint motion of dissent.

  “Soon there will be sleep everlasting,” he breathed. “But now we must talk, you and I.”

  She was about to forbid this, but changed her mind, reading the trouble in his countenance.

  “I must tell you what to do when I am gone,” he continued, speaking in a slightly stronger tone.

  She shook her head as tears filled her dark eyes.

  “No, no! You will be well again — the doctor is on his way, and he will give you another draught—”

  “His draughts no longer have the power to draw me back from my eternal home. Save for you, dearest child, I have no wish to stay.” He paused to draw in a laboured breath. “Dry your eyes, little one, and listen well to what I tell you now. You see my writing desk over there?”

  The girl nodded, for his sake making a strong effort to master her emotion.

  “Open it, and press your thumb upon the carving in the panel between the small drawers.”

  He watched as she rose, having first dried her cheeks, and followed his instructions. There was a click as a small door flew open, revealing a space behind.

  “There is a box. Bring it to me.”

  She obeyed, reaching into the cavity to produce a black wooden box; though small, it was quite heavy. She lifted it carefully, carrying it over to the invalid. He opened it with trembling fingers.

  At sight of its contents, she gasped, for a moment diverted from her grief.

  “So much money, uncle! Is it — is it—?”

  She faltered, the tears starting again.

  He shook his head feebly.

  “No, my child, not for my obsequies. That’s provided for elsewhere.” Again he took a deep breath. “I’ve been saving this for you ever since the war between our country and England ceased. It is to reunite you with your own kin.”

  “I won’t go!” she said in a passionate undertone. “I won’t leave you!”

  “It is I who must leave you, chérie,” he whispered. “Now listen carefully, for I’ve little strength left, and there is more for you to do. You will go to Paris — Sister Théresè will accompany you, and she knows my plan. She will explain all. In that box there is also a letter giving your aunt’s direction. You will take that and the money with you.”

  He stopped suddenly, fighting for breath.

  “You mustn’t speak anymore!” she exclaimed in a frantic whisper. “Oh, why does not the doctor come! I will send Marthe for him at once!”

  She turned impetuously to go and summon the housekeeper, but stopped as his voice weakly called her back. She returned irresolutely to the bed, and stood waiting while he made an effort for further speech. It was several minutes in coming.

  “I want your promise,” he said at last, meeting her eyes with something of the force that had once lain in his own, “that you will carry out my wishes, and let nothing stand in the way of a reunion with your kin. Nothing, do you understand? Not even that young man from Rouen who has been showing so much interest in you these last few months.”

  He paused, regarding compassionately the mounting colour in her cheeks.

  “You’re young, chérie, and the good God has decreed that lovers will come for young girls. That is right and natural. But though this one is, I am sure, an upright and worthy man, he is not for you. You must wed with one of your own station — that will be arranged when you are safely in your aunt’s charge.”

  The girl bowed her head in submission. In a quiet voice, she gave her promise.

  The invalid raised his trembling hand in blessing. Weeping, she crossed herself.

  After a somewhat stormy sea passage, Lydia and Corinna were in no mood to be diverted by the sights and sounds, not to say odours, of Dieppe. There was a pervading smell of fish mixed with the sharp tang of the sea, no doubt due in part to the sellers of shrimps, mussels, and other fruits de mer, who wheeled their barrows about the streets plying for trade.

  Corinna wrinkled her nose fastidiously as Sir Richard helped her into the hired carriage that was to take them to their hotel.

  “You don’t care for fish?” he asked with a teasing smile. “A pity, for I fancy it will figure largely in the menu here.”

  “It’s the odour,” she complained. “It’s so powerful — I had no notion!”

  “That comes of leading a sheltered life in an inland town.”

  “Well, at least your fish will be fresh here,” John consoled her, as he took his seat beside Lydia.

  “By Jove, yes!” exclaimed Laurence, who had been eagerly surveying the scene around him. “Only look at those lobsters, Corinna — they’ll have crawled right off the barrow in a moment! Famous fun if the man has to chase them along the street! I’ve a good mind to buy a couple and have a race with odds on! What d’you say, Richard?”

  Sir Richard grinned, but shook his head. “I fear it wouldn’t amuse the ladies. Jum
p in, Laurie.”

  Laurence obeyed, mumbling that it seemed a shame to miss the chance of what would have been a capital bit of sport, and the vehicle moved off at as brisk a pace as the crowded street permitted.

  Once installed in their comfortable hotel, at some distance removed from the quais, however, the ladies soon recovered their spirits. They were partaking of some excellent coffee in company with Sir Richard and his brother, Laurence being missing for the moment, when they heard a commotion going on in the passage outside the door of their private downstairs parlour. Excited French voices, some raised in laughter, others in protest, mingled with English ones; through the hubbub, they managed to identify Laurence’s tones.

  “No, damme, I say, give them room!” they heard him cry.

  “What the deuce—!” exclaimed Sir Richard, striding to the door and flinging it open.

  The others followed him, then gasped at the scene which met their eyes.

  About a dozen people were gathered in the passage standing about in varying attitudes of wonder, mirth, or disgust. Some were guests, others kitchen staff and waiters; the most voluble of all was the landlord of the inn, who was advancing on Laurence in a threatening attitude.

  “I tell you I won’t have such a thing in my house!” he shouted, red in the face. “It is incroyable, voyez-vous! Pierre — Louis” — gesturing to two men in white aprons — “remove these creatures at once — at once, I say, if you value your places in my hotel!”

  “Yes, Monsieur Panton, of course,” replied one of the men, advancing nervously towards Laurence, who was crouching on the floor over something which was hidden from Sir Richard’s view. “But the English milord—”