Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “And mademoiselle” — with a curtsy to the lady in grey—”has brought you all this long way through the heat to see me?”

  “I have brought mademoiselle,” Henrietta answered contemptuously, before the Frenchwoman had finished the moue and the shrug which with her always preceded speech; “and a fine plague I had to make her come.”

  “Madame will conceive that, in miladi’s absence, it was a prodigious inconvenience to order two coaches, and travel so far. His lordship’s groom of the chambers is my witness that I protested against such an outrageous proceeding.”

  “Two coaches!” exclaimed Angela.

  “A coach-and-six for me and my dogs and my gouvernante, and a coach-and-four for my people,” explained Henriette, who had modelled her equipage and suite upon a reminiscence of the train which attended Lady Castlemaine’s visit to Chilton, as beheld from a nursery window.

  “Come, child, and rest, out of the sun; and you, mademoiselle, must need refreshment after so long a drive.”

  “Our progress through a perpetual cloud of dust and a succession of narrow lanes did indeed suggest the torments of purgatory; but the happiness of madame’s gracious welcome is an all-sufficient compensation for our fatigue,” mademoiselle replied, with a deep curtsey.

  “I was not tired in the least,” asserted Henriette. “We stopped at the

  Crown at Thame and had strawberries and milk.”

  “You had strawberries and milk, mon enfant. I have a digestion which will not allow such liberties.”

  “And our horses were baited, and our people had their morning drink,” said Henriette, with her grown-up air. “One ought always to remember cattle and servants. May we put up our horses with you, auntie? We must leave you soon after dinner, so as to be at Chilton by sunset, or mademoiselle will be afraid of highwaymen, though I told Samuel and Peter to bring their blunderbusses in case of an attack. Ma’amselle has no valuables, and at the worst I should but have to give them my diamond buckle, and my locket with his lordship’s portrait.”

  Angela’s cheeks flushed at that chance allusion to Fareham’s picture. It brought back a vision of the Convent parlour, and she standing there with Fareham’s miniature in her hand, wonderingly contemplative of the dark, strong face. At that stage of her life she had seen so few men’s faces; and this one had a power in it that startled her. Did she divine, by some supernatural foreknowledge, that this face held the secret of her destiny?

  She went to the house, with Henriette’s lissom form hanging upon her, and the grey governess tripping mincingly beside them, tottering a little upon her high heels.

  Old Reuben had crept out into the sunshine, with a rustic footman following him, and the cook was looking out at a window in the wing where kitchen and servants’ hall occupied as important a position as the dining-parlour and saloon on the opposite side. A hall with open roof, wide double staircase, and music gallery, filled the central space between the two projecting wings, and at the back there was a banqueting-chamber or ball-room, where in more prosperous days, the family had been accustomed to dine on all stately occasions — a room now shabby and grey with disuse.

  While the footman showed the way to the stables, Angela drew Reuben aside for a brief consultation as to ways and means for a dinner that must be the best the house could provide, and which might be served at two o’clock, the later hour giving time for extra preparation. A capon, larded after the French fashion, a pair of trouts, the finest the stream could furnish, or a carp stewed in clary wine, and as many sweet kickshaws as cook’s ingenuity could furnish at so brief a notice. Nor were waiting-woman, lackey, and postillions to be neglected. Chine and sirloin, pudding and beer must be provided for all.

  “There are six men besides the black boy,” sighed Reuben; they will devour us a week’s provision of butcher’s meat.”

  “If you have done your housekeeping, tante, let me go to your favourite summer-house with you, and tell you my secrets. I am perishing for a tête-à-tête! Ma’amselle” — with a wave of the peacock fan—”can take a siesta, and forget the dust of the road, while we converse.”

  Angela ushered mademoiselle to the pretty summer-parlour, looking out upon a geometrical arrangement of flower-beds in the Dutch manner. Chocolate and other light refreshments were being prepared for the travellers; but Henrietta’s impatience would wait for nothing.

  “I have not driven along these detestable roads to taste your chocolate,” she protested. “I have a world to say to you: en attendant, mademoiselle, you will consider everything at your disposal in the house of my grandfather, jusqu’à deux heures.”

  She sank almost to the ground in a Whitehall curtsy, rose swift as an arrow, tucked her arm through Angela’s, and pulled her out of the room, paying no attention to the governess’s voluble injunctions not to expose her complexion to the sun, or to sit in a cold wind, or to spoil her gown.

  “What a shabby old place it is!” she said, looking critically round her as they went through the gardens. “I’m afraid you must perish with ennui here, with so few servants and no company to speak of. Yes” — contemplating her shrewdly, as they seated themselves in a stone temple at the end of the bowling-green—”you are looking moped and ill. This valley air does not agree with you. Well, you can have a much finer place whenever you choose. A better house and garden, ever so much nearer Chilton. And you will choose, won’t you, dearest?” nestling close to her, after throwing off the big hat which made such loving contact impossible.

  “I don’t understand you, Henriette.”

  “If you call me Henriette I shall be sure you are angry with me.”

  “No, love, not angry, but surprised.”

  “You think I have no right to talk of your sweetheart, because I am only thirteen — and have scarce left off playing with babies — I have hated them for ages, only people persist in giving me the foolish puppets. I know more of the world than you do, auntie, after being shut in a Convent the best part of your life. Why are you so obstinate, ma chérie, in refusing a gentleman we all like?”

  “Do you mean Sir Denzil?”

  “Sans doute. Have you a crowd of servants?”

  “No, child, only this one. But don’t you see that other people’s liking has less to do with the question than mine? And if I do not like him well enough to be his wife — —”

  “But you ought to like him. You know how long her ladyship’s heart has been set on the match; you must have seen what pains she took in London to have Sir Denzil always about you. And now, after a most exemplary patience, after being your faithful servant for over a year, he asks you to be his wife, and you refuse, obstinately refuse. And you would rather mope here with my poor old grandfather — in abject poverty — mother says ‘abject poverty’ — than be the honoured mistress of one of the finest seats in Oxfordshire.”

  “I would rather do what is right and honest, my dearest It is dishonest to marry without love.”

  “Then half mother’s fine friends must be dishonest, for I dare swear that very few of them love their husbands.”

  “Henriette, you talk of things you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know! Why, there is no one in London knows more. I am always listening, and I always remember. De Malfort used to say I had a plaguey long memory, when I told him of things he had said a year ago.”

  “My dear, I love you fondly, but I cannot have you talk to me of what you don’t understand; and I am sorry Sir Denzil Warner had no more courtesy than to go and complain of me to my sister.”

  “He did not come to Chilton to complain. Her ladyship met him on the way from Oxford in her coach. He was riding, and she called to him to come to the coach door. It was the day after he left you, and he was looking miserable; and she questioned him, and he owned that his suit had been rejected, and he had no further hope. My mother came home in a rage. But why was she angry with his lordship? Indeed, she rated him as if it were his fault you refused Sir Denzil.”

  Angela sat silent,
and the hand Henriette was clasping grew cold as ice.

  “Did my father bid you refuse him, aunt?” asked the girl, scrutinising her aunt’s countenance, with those dark grey eyes, so like Fareham’s in their falcon brightness.

  “No, child. Why should he interfere? It is no business of his.”

  “Then why was mother so angry? She walked up and down the room in a towering passion. ‘This is your doing,’ she cried. ‘If she were not your adoring slave, she would have jumped at so handsome a sweetheart. This is your witchcraft. It is you she loves — you — you — you!’ His lordship stood dumb, and pointed to me. ‘Do you forget your child is present?’ he said. ‘I forget everything except that everybody uses me shamefully,’ she cried. ‘I was only made to be slighted and trampled upon.’ His lordship made no answer, but walked to the door in that way he ever has when he is angered — pale, frowning, silent. I was standing in his way, and he gripped me by the arm, and dragged me out of the room. I dare venture there is a bruise on my arm where he held me. I know his fingers hurt me with their grip; and I could hear my lady screaming and sobbing as he took me away. But he would not let me go back to her. He would only send her women. ‘Your mother has an interval of madness,’ he said; ‘you are best out of her presence.’ The news of the Dutch ships came the same evening, and my father rode off towards London, and my mother ordered her coach, and followed an hour after. They seemed both distracted; and only because you refused Sir Denzil.”

  “I cannot help her ladyship’s foolishness, Papillon. She has no occasion for any of this trouble. I am her dutiful, affectionate sister; but my heart is not hers to give or to refuse.”

  “But was it indeed my father’s fault? Is it because you adore him that you refused Sir Denzil?”

  “No — no — no. My affection for my brother — he has been to me as a brother — can make no difference in my regard for any one else. One cannot fall in love at another’s ordering, or be happy with a husband of another’s choice. You will discover that for yourself, Papillon, perhaps, when you are a woman.”

  “Oh, I mean to marry for wealth and station, as all the clever women do,” said Papillon, with an upward jerk of her delicate chin. “Mrs. Lewin always says I ought to be a duchess. I should like to have married the Duke of Monmouth, and then, who knows, I might have been a Queen. The King’s other sons are too young for me, and they will never have Monmouth’s chance. But, indeed, sweetheart, you ought to marry Sir Denzil, and come and live near us at Chilton. You would make us all happy.”

  “Ma tres chère, it is so easy to talk — but when thou thyself art a woman — —”

  “I shall never care for such trumpery as love. I mean to have a grand house — ever so much grander than Fareham House. Perhaps I may marry a Frenchman, and have a salon, and all the wits about me on my day. I would make it gayer than Mademoiselle de Scudery’s Saturdays, which my governess so loves to talk of. There should be less talk and more dancing. But listen, p’tite tante,” clasping her arms suddenly round Angela’s neck, “I won’t leave this spot till you have promised to change your mind about Denzil. I like him vastly; and I’m sure there’s no reason why you should not love him — unless you really are his lordship’s adoring slave,” emphasising those last words, “and he has forbidden you.”

  Angela sat dumb, her eyes fixed on vacancy.

  “Why, you are like the lady in those lines you made me learn, who ‘sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.’ Dearest, why so sad? Remember that fine house — and the dairy that was once a chapel. You could turn it into a chapel again if you liked, and have your own chaplain. His Majesty takes no heed of what we Papists do — being a Papist himself at heart, they say — though poor wretches are dragged off to gaol for worshipping in a conventicle. What is a conventicle? Will you not change your mind, dearest? Answer, answer, answer!”

  The slender arms tightened their caress, the pretty little brown face pressed itself against Angela’s pale, cold cheek.

  “For my sake, sweetheart, say thou wilt have him. I will go to see thee every day.”

  “I have been here for months and you have not come, though I begged you in a dozen letters.”

  “I have been kept at my book and my dancing lessons. Mademoiselle told her ladyship that I was a monster of ignorance. I have been treated shamefully. I could not have come to-day had my lady been at home; but I would not brook a hireling’s dictation. Voyons, p’tite tante, tu seras miladi Warner. Dis, dis, que je te fasse mourir de baisers.”

  She was almost stifling her aunt with kisses in the intervals of her eager speech.

  “The last word has been spoken, Papillon. I have sent him away — and it was not the first time. I had refused him before. I cannot call him back.”

  “But he shall come without calling. He is your adoring slave,” cried Henriette, leaping up from the stone bench, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy. “He will need no calling. Dearest, dearest, most exquisite, delectable auntie! I am so happy! And my mother will be content. And no one shall ever say you are my father’s slave.”

  “Henriette, if you repeat that odious phrase I shall hate you!”

  “Now you are angry. God, what a frown! I will repeat no word that angers you. My Lady Warner — sweet Lady Warner. I vow ’tis a prettier name than Revel or Fareham.”

  “You are mad, Henriette! I have promised nothing.”

  “Yes, you have, little aunt. You have promised to drop a curtsy, and say ‘Yes’ when Sir Denzil rides this way. You sent him away in a huff. He will come back smiling like yonder sunshine on the water. Oh, I am so happy! My doing, all my doing!”

  “It is useless to argue with you.”

  “Quite useless. Il n’y a pas de quoi. Nous sommes d’accord. I shall be your chief bridesmaid. You must be married in her Majesty’s chapel at St. James’s. The Pope will give his dispensation — if you cannot persuade Denzil to change his religion. Were he my suitor I would twist him round my fingers,” with an airy gesture of the small brown hand.

  There is nothing more difficult than to convince a child that she pleads in vain for any ardently desired object. Nothing that Angela could say would reconcile her niece to the idea of failure; so there was no help but to let her fancy her arguments conclusive, and to change the bent of her thoughts if possible.

  It wanted nearly an hour of dinner-time, so Angela suggested an inspection of the home farm, which was close by, trusting that Henriette’s love of animals would afford an all-sufficient diversion; nor was she disappointed, for the little fine lady was quite as much at home in stable and cowshed as in a London drawing-room, and spent a happy hour in making friends with the live stock, from the favourite Hereford cow, queen of the herd, to the smallest bantam in the poultry-yard.

  To this rustic entertainment followed dinner, in the preparation of which banquet Marjory Cook had surpassed herself; and Papillon, being by this time seriously hungry, sat and feasted to her heart’s content, discussing the marrow pudding and the stewed carp with the acumen and authority of a professed gourmet.

  “I like this old-fashioned rustic diet,” she said condescendingly.

  She reproached her governess with not doing justice to a syllabub; but showed herself a fine lady by her complaint at the lack of ice for her wine.

  “My grandfather should make haste and build an icehouse before next winter,” she drawled. “One can scarce live through this weather without ice,” fanning herself, with excessive languor.

  “I hope, dear, thou wilt not expire on the journey home.”

  The coaches were at the gate before Papillon had finished dinner, and Mademoiselle was in great haste to be gone, reminding her pupil that she had travelled so far against her will and at the hazard of angering Madame la Baronne.

  “Madame la Baronne will be enraptured when she knows what I have done to please her,” answered Papillon, and then, with a last parting embrace, hugging her aunt’s fair neck more energetically than ever, she whispered, “I shal
l tell Denzil. You will make us all happy.”

  A cloud of dust, a clatter of hoofs, Ma’amselle’s screams as the carriage rocked while she was mounting the steps, and with much cracking of whips and swearing at horses from the postillions who had taken their fill of home-brewed ale, hog’s harslet, and cold chine, and, lo, the brilliant vision of the Honourable Henrietta Maria and her train vanished in the dust of the summer highway, and Angela went slowly back to the long green walk beside the fish-pond, where she was in as silent a solitude, but for a lingering nightingale or two, as if she had been in the palace of the sleeping beauty. If all things slumbered not, there was at least as marked a pause in life. The Dutch might be burning more ships, and the noise of war might be coming nearer London with every hour of the summer day. Here there was a repose as of the after-life, when all hopes and dreams and loves and hates are done and ended, and the soul waits in darkness and silence for the next unfolding of its wings.

  Those hateful words, “your adoring slave,” and all that speech of Hyacinth’s which the child had repeated, haunted Angela with an agonising iteration. She had not an instant’s doubt as to the scene being faithfully reported. She knew how preternaturally acute Henriette’s intellect had become in the rarified atmosphere of her mother’s drawing-room, how accurate her memory, how sharp her ears, and how observant her eyes. Whatever Henriette reported was likely to be to the very letter and spirit of the scene she had witnessed. And Hyacinth, her sister, had put this shame upon her, had spoken of her in the cruelest phrase as loving one whom it was mortal sin to love. Hyacinth, so light, so airy a creature, whom her younger sister had ever considered as a grown-up child, had yet been shrewd enough to fathom her mystery, and to discover that secret attachment which had made Denzil’s suit hateful to her. “And if I do not consent to marry him she will always think ill of me. She will think of me as a wretch who tried to steal her husband’s love — a worse woman than Lady Castlemaine — for she had the King’s affection before he ever saw the Queen’s poor plain face. His adoring slave!”