Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  of pride and delight in showing old friends what a sweet flower I

  had reared in my mountain home; but, alas, Lesbia, it may not be.

  ‘Fate has willed otherwise. The maimed hand does not recover,

  although Horton is very clever, and thoroughly understands my case.

  I am not ill, I am not in danger; so you need feel no anxiety about

  me; but I am a cripple; and I am likely to remain a cripple for

  months; so the idea of a London season this year is hopeless.

  ‘Now, as you have in a manner made your début at Cannes, it would

  never do to bury you here for another year. You complained of the

  dullness last summer; but you would find Fellside much duller now

  that you have tasted the elixir of life. No, my dear love, it will

  be well for you to be presented, as Lady Kirkbank proposes, at the

  first drawing-room after Easter; and Lady Kirkbank will have to

  present you. She will be pleased to do this, I know, for her letters

  are full of enthusiasm about you. And, after all, I do not think you

  will lose by the exchange. Clever as I think myself, I fear I should

  find myself sorely at fault in the society of to-day. All things are

  changed: opinions, manners, creeds, morals even. Acts that were

  crimes in my day are now venial errors — opinions that were

  scandalous are now the mark of “advanced thought.” I should be too

  formal for this easy-going age, should be ridiculed as old-fashioned

  and narrow-minded, should put you to the blush a dozen times a day

  by my prejudices and opinions.

  ‘It is very good of you to think of travelling so long a distance to

  see me; and I should love to look at your sweet face, and hear you

  describe your new experiences; but I could not allow you to travel

  with only the protection of a maid; and there are many reasons why I

  think it better to defer the meeting till the end of the season,

  when Lady Kirkbank will bring my treasure back to me, eager to tell

  me the history of all the hearts she has broken.’

  The dowager’s letter to Lady Kirkbank was brief and business-like. She could only hope that her old friend Georgie, whose acuteness she knew of old, would divine her feelings and her wishes, without being explicitly told what they were.

  ‘My dear Georgie,

  ‘I am too ill to leave this house; indeed I doubt if I shall ever

  leave it till I am taken away in my coffin; but please say nothing

  to alarm Lesbia. Indeed, there is no ground for fear, as I am not

  dangerously ill, and may drag out an imprisonment of long years

  before the coffin comes to fetch me. There are reasons, which you

  will understand, why Lesbia should not come here till after the

  season; so please keep her in Arlington Street, and occupy her mind

  as much as you can with the preparations for her first campaign. I

  give you carte blanche. If Carson is still in business I should

  like her to make my girl’s gowns; but you must please yourself in

  this matter, as it is quite possible that Carson is a little behind

  the times.

  ‘I must ask you to present my darling, and to deal with her exactly

  as if she were a daughter of your own. I think you know all my views

  and hopes about her; and I feel that I can trust to your friendship

  in this my day of need. The dream of my life has been to launch her

  myself, and direct her every step in the mazes of town life; but

  that dream is over. I have kept age and infirmity at a distance,

  have even forgotten that the years were going by; and now I find

  myself an old woman all at once, and my golden dream has vanished.’

  Lady Kirkbank’s reply came by return of post, and happily this gushing epistle had not to be submitted to Mary’s eye.

  ‘My dearest Di,

  ‘My heart positively bleeds for you. What is the matter with your

  hand, that you talk of being a life-long prisoner to your room? Pray

  send for Paget or Erichsen, and have yourself put right at once. No

  doubt that local simpleton is making a mess of your case. Perhaps

  while he is dabbing with lint and lotions the real remedy is the

  knife. I am sure amputation would be less melancholy than the

  despondent state of feeling which you are now suffering. If any limb

  of mine went wrong, I should say to the surgeon, “Cut it off, and

  patch up the stump in your best style; I give you a fortnight, and

  at the end of that time I expect to be going to parties again.” Life

  is not long enough for dawdling surgery.

  ‘As regards Lesbia, I can only say that I adore her, and I am

  enchanted at the idea that I am to run her myself. I intend her to

  be the beauty of the season — not one of the loveliest

  debutantes, or any rot of that kind — but just the girl whom

  everybody will be crazy about. There shall be a mob wherever she

  appears, Di, I promise you that. There is no one in London who can

  work a thing of that kind better than your humble servant. And when

  once the girl is the talk of the town, all the rest is easy. She can

  choose for herself among the very best men in society. Offers will

  pour in as thickly as circulars from undertakers and mourning

  warehouses after a death.

  ‘Lesbia is so cool-headed and sensible that I have not the least

  doubt of her success. With an impulsive or romantic girl there is

  always the fear of a fiasco. But this sweet child of yours has

  been well brought up, and knows her own value. She behaved like a

  queen here, where I need not tell you society is just a little

  mixed; though, of course, we only cultivate our own set. Your heart

  would swell with pride if you could see the way she puts down men

  who are not quite good style; and the ease with which she crushes

  those odious American girls, with their fine complexions and loud

  manners.

  ‘Be assured that I shall guard her as the apple of my eye, and that

  the detrimental who circumvents me will be a very Satan of schemers.

  ‘I can but smile at your mention of Carson, whose gowns used to fit

  us so well in our girlish days, and whose bills seem moderate

  compared with the exorbitant accounts I get now.

  ‘Carson has long been forgotten, my dear soul, gone with the snows

  of last year. A long procession of fashionable French dressmakers

  has passed across the stage since her time, like the phantom kings

  in Macbeth; and now the last rage is to have our gowns made by an

  Englishman who works for the Princess, and who gives himself most

  insufferable airs, or an Irishwoman who is employed by all the best

  actresses. It is to the latter, Kate Kearney, I shall entrust our

  sweet Lesbia’s toilettes.’

  The same post brought a loving letter from Lesbia, full of regret at not being allowed to go down to Fellside, and yet full of delight at the prospect of her first season.

  ‘Lady Kirkbank and I have been discussing my court dress,’ she wrote,

  ‘and we have decided upon a white cut-velvet train, with a border of

  ostrich feathers, over a satin petticoat embroidered with seed

  pearl. It will be expensive, but we know you will not mind that.

  Lady Kirkbank takes the idea from the costume Buckingham wore at the

  Louvre the first time he me
t Anne of Austria. Isn’t that clever of

  her? She is not a deep thinker like you; is horribly ignorant of

  science, metaphysics, poetry even. She asked me one day who Plato

  was, and whether he took his name from the battle of Platoea; and

  she says she never could understand why people make a fuss about

  Shakespeare; but she has read all the secret histories and memoirs

  that ever were written, and knows all the ins and outs of court life

  and high life for the last three hundred years; and there is not a

  person in the peerage whose family history she has not at her

  fingers’ ends, except my grandfather. When I asked her to tell me

  all about Lord Maulevrier and his achievements as Governor of

  Madras, she had not a word to say. So, perhaps, she draws upon her

  invention a little in talking about other people, and felt herself

  restrained when she came to speak of my grandfather.’

  This passage in Lesbia’s letter affected Lady Maulevrier as if a scorpion had wriggled from underneath the sheet of paper. She folded the letter, and laid it in the satin-lined box on her table, with a deep sigh.

  ‘Yes, she is in the world now, and she will ask questions. I have never warned her against pronouncing her grandfather’s name. There are some who will not be so kind as Georgie Kirkbank; some, perhaps, who will delight in humiliating her, and who will tell her the worst that can be told. My only hope is that she will make a great marriage, and speedily. Once the wife of a man with a high place in the world, worldlings will be too wise to wound her by telling her that her grandfather was an unconvicted felon.’

  The die was cast. Lady Maulevrier might dread the hazard of evil tongues, of slanderous memories; but she could not recall her consent to Lesbia’s début. The girl was already launched; she had been seen and admired. The next stage in her career must be to be wooed and won by a worthy wooer.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXI.

  ON THE DARK BROW OF HELVELLYN.

  While these plans were being settled, and while Lesbia’s future was the all-absorbing subject of Lady Maulevrier’s thoughts, Mary contrived to be happier than she had ever been in her life before. It was happiness that grew and strengthened with every day; and yet there was no obvious reason for this deep joy. Her life ran in the same familiar groove. She walked and rode on the old pathways; she rowed on the lake she had known from babyhood; she visited her cottagers, and taught in the village school, just the same as of old. The change was only that she was no longer alone; and of late the solitude of her life, the ever-present consciousness that nobody shared her pleasures or sympathised with her upon any point, had weighed upon her like an actual burden. Now she had Maulevrier, who was always kind, who understood and shared almost all her tastes, and Maulevrier’s friend, who, although not given to saying smooth things, seemed warmly interested in her pursuits and opinions. He encouraged her to talk, although he generally took the opposite side in every argument; and she no longer felt oppressed or irritated by the idea that he despised her.

  Indeed, although he never flattered or even praised her, Mr. Hammond let her see that he liked her society. She had gone out of her way to avoid him, very fearful lest he should think her bold or masculine; but he had taken pains to frustrate all her efforts in that direction; he had refused to go upon excursions which she could not share. ‘Lady Mary must come with us,’ he said, when they were planning a morning’s ramble. Thus it happened that Mary was his guide and companion in all his walks, and roamed with him bamboo in hand, over every one of those mountainous paths she knew and loved so well. Distance was as nothing to them — sometimes a boat helped them, and they went over wintry Windermere to climb the picturesque heights above Bowness. Sometimes they took ponies, and a groom, and left their steeds to perform the wilder part of the way on foot. In this wise John Hammond saw all that was to be seen within a day’s journey of Grasmere, except the top of Helvellyn. Maulevrier had shirked the expedition, had always put off Mary and Mr. Hammond when they proposed it. The season was not advanced enough — the rugged pathway by the Tongue Ghyll would be as slippery as glass — no pony could get up there in such weather.

  ‘We have not had any frost to speak of for the last fortnight,’ pleaded Mary, who was particularly anxious to do the honours of Helvellyn, as the real lion of the neighbourhood.

  ‘What a simpleton you are, Molly!’ cried Maulevrier. ‘Do you suppose because there is no frost in your grandmother’s garden — and if you were to ask Staples about his peaches he would tell you a very different story — that there’s a tropical atmosphere on Dolly Waggon Pike? Why, I’d wager the ice on Grisdale Tarn is thick enough for skating. Helvellyn won’t run away, child. You and Hammond can dance the Highland Schottische on Striding Edge in June, if you like.’

  ‘Mr. Hammond won’t be here in June,’ said Mary.

  ‘Who knows? — the train service is pretty fair between London and Windermere. Hammond and I would think nothing of putting ourselves in the mail on a Friday night, and coming down to spend Saturday and Sunday with you — if you are good.’

  There came a sunny morning soon after Easter which seemed mild enough for June; and when Hammond suggested that this was the very day for Helvellyn, Maulevrier had not a word to say against the truth of that proposition. The weather had been exceptionally warm for the last week, and they had played tennis and sat in the garden just as if it had been actually summer. Patches of snow might still linger on the crests of the hills — but the approach to those bleak heights could hardly be glacial.

  Mary clasped her hands delightedly.

  ‘Dear old Maulevrier!’ she exclaimed, ‘you are always good to me. And now I shall be able to show you the Red Tarn, the highest pool of water in England,’ she said, turning to Hammond. ‘And you will see Windermere winding like a silvery serpent between the hills, and Grasmere shining like a jewel in the depth of the valley, and the sea glittering like a line of white light between the edges of earth and heaven, and the dark Scotch hills like couchant lions far away to the north.’

  ‘That is to say these things are all supposed to be on view from the top of the mountain; but as a peculiar and altogether exceptional state of the atmosphere is essential to their being seen, I need not tell you that they are rarely visible,’ said Maulevrier. ‘You are talking to old mountaineers, Molly. Hammond has done Cotapaxi and had his little clamber on the equatorial Andes, and I — well, child, I have done my Righi, and I have always found the boasted panorama enveloped in dense fog.’

  ‘It won’t be foggy to-day,’ said Mary. ‘Shall we do the whole thing on foot, or shall I order the ponies?’

  Mr. Hammond inquired the distance up and down, and being told that it involved only a matter of eight miles, decided upon walking.

  ‘I’ll walk, and lead your pony,’ he said to Mary, but Mary declared herself quite capable of going on foot, so the ponies were dispensed with as a possible encumbrance.

  This was planned and discussed in the garden before breakfast. Fräulein was told that Mary was going for a long walk with her brother and Mr. Hammond; a walk which might last over the usual luncheon hour; so Fräulein was not to wait luncheon. Mary went to her grandmother’s room to pay her duty visit. There were no letters for her to write that morning, so she was perfectly free.

  The three pedestrians started an hour after breakfast, in light marching order. The two young men wore their Argyleshire shooting clothes — homespun knickerbockers and jackets, thick-ribbed hose knitted by Highland lasses in Inverness. They carried a couple of hunting flasks filled with claret, and a couple of sandwich boxes, and that was all. Mary wore her substantial tailor-gown of olive tweed, and a little toque to match, with a silver mounted grouse-claw for her only ornament.

  It was a delicious morning, the air fresh and sweet, the sun comfortably warm, a little too warm, perhaps, presently, when they had trodden
the narrow path by the Tongue Ghyll, and were beginning to wind slowly upwards over rough boulders and last year’s bracken, tough and brown and tangled, towards that rugged wall of earth and stone tufted with rank grasses, which calls itself Dolly Waggon Pike. Here they all came to a stand-still, and wiped the dews of honest labour from their foreheads; and here Maulevrier flung himself down upon a big boulder, with the soles of his stout shooting boots in running water, and took out his cigar case.

  ‘How do you like it?’ he asked his friend, when he had lighted his cigarette. ‘I hope you are enjoying yourself.’

  ‘I never was happier in my life,’ answered Hammond.

  He was standing on higher ground, with Mary at his elbow, pointing out and expatiating upon the details of the prospect. There were the lakes — Grasmere, a disk of shining blue; Rydal, a patch of silver; and Windermere winding amidst a labyrinth of wooded hills.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’ asked Maulevrier.

  ‘Not a whit.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot you had done Cotapaxi, or as much of Cotapaxi as living mortal ever has done. That makes a difference. I am going home.’

  ‘Oh, Maulevrier!’ exclaimed Mary, piteously.

  ‘I am going home. You two can go to the top. You are both hardened mountaineers, and I am not in it with either of you. When I rashly consented to a pedestrian ascent of Helvellyn I had forgotten what the gentleman was like; and as to Dolly Waggon I had actually forgotten her existence. But now I see the lady — as steep as the side of a house, and as stony — no, naught but herself can be her parallel in stoniness. No, Molly, I will go no further.’

  ‘But we shall go down on the other side,’ urged Mary. ‘It is a little steeper on the Cumberland side, but not nearly so far.’

  ‘A little steeper! I Can anything be steeper than Dolly Waggon? Yes, you are right. It is steeper on the Cumberland side. I remember coming down a sheer descent, like an exaggerated sugar-loaf; but I was on a pony, and it was the brute’s look-out. I will not go down the Cumberland side on my own legs. No, Molly, not even for you. But if you and Hammond want to go to the top, there is nothing to prevent you. He is a skilled mountaineer. I’ll trust you with him.’