“We have kept that promise,” he said, firmly. “This is a chance meeting, but I think it right that we should speak together once more before we part for good. There are things which need to be said between us. When last we met, we were both too overcome by your parents’ refusal of my application for your hand in marriage, even though it was expected. I could not think clearly — I needed time for reflection.”
“What good can it do?” she asked, despondently. “Nothing can alter their decision, and I am bound to obey them.”
“I would not wish to deny that you have a duty to your parents. But don’t forget that you also have a duty to yourself, Louisa. You are not a child — you are one and twenty, and therefore of an age to have some say in what concerns you so nearly.”
“You think I should defy them, Oliver?” she asked, incredulously. “No, you couldn’t say that — you, a clergyman!”
He shook his head. “I don’t say it. I am only thinking that should they try to push you into a loveless marriage with someone else, you would have the right to oppose them. Oh, my love!”
She caught her breath at the endearment.
“I will call you so,” he said, sadly, “just for this little while that we can be together. It may be for the last time.”
“Don’t,” she exclaimed, on a sob.
“No. I must try not to distress you, for we have so little time, and what I have to say is important.” His voice became firmer now. “We both know, dearest, that the living to which I am soon to succeed will not, as your parents pointed out, enable me to keep you in the style to which you’ve been accustomed.”
“As if I cared for that!” she cried, in a strangled tone. “I have fortune enough for us both!”
“But I must care for it, my dearest. What kind of a man can be content to live on his wife’s fortune? Your parents are quite right to say that I must not take advantage of your present feelings for me, that you can make a more equal match —”
“Oh, Oliver!” She looked up at him, her eyes swimming in tears. “What do I care so long as we can be together? I would rather live in a hovel with you, than in a palace with any other man!”
“So you think now.”
She stared at him, aghast. “You don’t believe me? You think — dear God, what can you mean?”
“If you look at me like that,” he said, smiling wryly, “I shan’t have the remotest chance of telling you what I mean. But we have so little time, my dearest — I must try to keep a hold on myself. What I want to say is this. You must try to forget me,”
“Forget you?” she repeated, weakly. “Oh, Oliver — my dearest — do you think that I could?”
“I don’t wish to think it,” he answered, grimly, “but we both of us know such changes do occur. Have you no female friends who have thought themselves deep in love with a certain man at one time, and then six months later have been just as decided in their preference for another? I have seen this happen to many of my own friends.”
A little colour came into Louisa’s cheeks, and she raised her chin. “So you believe that what we feel for each other is no more than a mere infatuation?” she asked, in a challenging tone.
His lips set in a firm line. “It is safer not to ask what I believe,” he said, with some constraint. “What I am proposing is that we should put our feelings for each other to the test. As I told you, I am going away until the living which has been promised to me falls vacant. That will be almost a year hence. We shall never meet by chance, as we must have done had I stayed here; and we have promised not to correspond with each other. We shall therefore be completely cut off during that time. It is a lengthy period” — his voice wavered for a second, but recovered immediately — “long enough for us to discover the truth. If at the end of it, we still feel the same as we do today —”
“Oh, I know that I shall!” breathed Louisa.
“If so, then we must make a stand with your parents,” he finished, firmly. “We shall have the right to do so, then; the proof that our affections have endured not only the long separation, but all our determination to overcome them.”
She looked at him doubtfully at these last words.
“That is what I meant when I said that you must try to forget me, Louisa,” he said steadfastly. “There is only one way we can be sure that ours is indeed a love that means more to us than all other considerations. We must try — honestly and conscientiously — to overcome it.”
A rush of tears blinded her, and she shook her head dumbly.
“Have you tried — really tried — to forget me, so far?” he demanded, steeling himself not to take her in his arms. “Have you exerted yourself to put all thoughts of me away from you, and to join in the amusements of your sisters?” He shook his head gently. “No, I see from your face that you haven’t. Neither have I. But from the moment that we leave each other now, Louisa, we must do this very thing. It will be difficult —” His voice failed for a moment.
“Impossible!” sobbed Louisa.
“Not impossible — oh, do not cry, my love! I cannot bear it if you cry,” he said, in a more natural tone that was charged with emotion.
They stood looking at each other for a moment in abject misery. A curl of hair had escaped from under her bonnet and lay against her cheek, dampened by tears. A little incoherent sound escaped him. He gathered her into his arms.
The bonnet fell back from her head, and he laid his lips against her golden hair. She clung to him, sobbing quietly.
After a time, he raised his head. “What have we done, to suffer so?” he said, harshly. “Our only fault is to love each other!”
The bitter words aroused Louisa’s maternal feelings, never very far from the surface.
“Hush, my darling,” she said, gently, stroking his face with soft fingers. “I have been selfish — forgive me! I must not make your task any harder than it is.”
She disengaged herself, and found a handkerchief. Then she resolutely dried her eyes, and faced him with a brave smile.
“I promise,” she said firmly. “I will try to do as you ask. I can see that you are right — that we must be quite sure —”
“It is not even as if I had any hopes of increasing my income as time goes on,” he said, despondently. “As you know, one needs a patron for that — someone with a wealthy living in his gift, who would be willing to bestow it on me. And we have no family connection or close friends of the kind. I think, Louisa, the one thing I could not bear would be to see you regretting your choice after we had married, because of the difference in your circumstances! That is why I insist that we must be certain — certain that our affection is strong enough to withstand all our efforts to overcome it. Only so can we be sure that it will suffice to outweigh all the worldly advantages which you must forgo if we two marry.”
She nodded. “You think we could persuade Mama and Papa to consent, if — if we do submit ourselves to this test?” she asked, doubtfully.
“If our love survives a year’s separation, then it should be strong enough to conquer anything,” he replied confidently. “Once we are sure, it will be easier to convince others. At present, I see the force of your parents’ objections all too clearly. I have no right to persuade you into a disadvantageous marriage, without giving you time and opportunity to reflect.” He paused, and looked into her face, his eyes deep and serious. “But you must make a strong effort to put all thoughts of me aside, Louisa, as I — God help me! — will do my best to overcome my feelings for you. Nothing else will constitute a true test. It may chance that you will succeed, and that someone else will take my place — I cannot flatter myself that there is any reason for you to attach yourself to me —”
“I can think of a dozen reasons,” she interrupted, softly.
“But you will promise to try?”
“Yes,” she answered, quietly. “I promise. It will not be easy —”
“There is help to be found, if you need it.”
She nodded, too moved for speech
. He took her hand and carried it to his lips, holding it there for a long time while he looked down at her as though he meant to imprint her image on his memory for ever.
They came back from a long distance to hear footsteps on the path leading up to the church, and saw that Louisa’s sisters were already returning.
Chapter Five
DINNER AT NEVERN HALL
The pillared portico of Nevern Hall glowed golden in the evening sunlight as the Denhams’ carriage came sedately down the long avenue of trees which led to the house.
“There can be no doubt at all this is one of the handsomest residences hereabouts,” remarked Lady Denham.
“Indeed, I agree with you, Mama!” exclaimed Eleanor. “The Etruscan room is beyond anything! Oh, why cannot we have a similar room in our house, Papa? I declare I would never sit anywhere else — I would stay there for ever!”
“Even that inducement fails to persuade me,” replied her father, smiling. “I suppose some may care to have a whole room decorated with Wedgwood ware, but it isn’t my taste. No, no; I prefer the small drawing-room, with its warm tapestries and comfortable wing chairs. A man can be at ease there, and not fancy he has strayed into some potter’s showcase.”
“It was designed by Robert Adam,” said Lady Denham reproachfully.
“What has that to say to anything, my love? One either likes a thing, or one doesn’t. I don’t, and there’s an end of the matter as far as I’m concerned.”
“Papa, why don’t we have some prodigious swell of an architect to renovate our house?” asked Catherine.
Her father eyed her severely. “Is that the kind of expression your mother permits you to use, young woman?”
“Indeed it is not!” snapped Lady Denham. “Catherine, you will mind your tongue in front of our hosts, or I shall have something to say to you afterwards. ‘Prodigious swell’, indeed! Where in the world did you pick up such a coarse expression?”
Eleanor was quick to rush to the rescue as her sister subsided, feeling crushed.
“No, but, Papa, why don’t we make some improvements to the house?”
“What purpose would there be in it?” demanded Sir George. “I have no son to hand the place over to, and it suits your mother and myself well enough as it is. It might be different if we had an heir, but you girls will all marry and set up establishments of your own.”
“I trust you may be right there, Denham,” remarked his wife, dryly.
“Well, I know there are five of the chits still to see off,” he replied, cheerfully, “but they’re not too odiously ugly, and they’re well provided for. I think we shall contrive to get rid of ’em all readily enough. At any rate,” he concluded, with a wink at his daughters, “I’m determined to marry ’em off as soon as may be. Too much petticoat government in our household for my liking.”
They all chided him for this remark, but it succeeded in restoring family good humour.
They were admitted to a spacious entrance hall decorated with classical sculptures set in niches, and conducted up a broad mahogany staircase to a room on the first floor. The two occupants of the room rose as soon as the visitors were announced and came forward hospitably to greet them.
“My dearest Sophie, how delightful to see you!”
The speaker was a somewhat plump lady in her fifties, with hair that was still golden and a face that bore traces of what had once been an exceptional beauty. There was a kindly expression round her mouth; but her blue eyes, though soft, were shrewd.
“It is an age since last we met!” went on Lady Nevern. “Far, far too long! And can this really be little Eleanor? Gracious, child, how you’ve grown! And Catherine, too — Louisa, of course, was full grown when last I saw her. But you are all so handsome — and so like your dear Mama! But there,” she concluded, being blessed with a sensitivity which guarded her from the worst blunders of an incautious tongue, “young people do not care to hear such stuff, I know. Pray be seated. You will prefer the wing chair, Sir George, alongside Nevern, and you, Sophie, must join me on the sofa, so that we may enjoy a cosy little chat together.” She broke off, turning to her husband. “You sent to inform James that our visitors are come, my dear?”
The Earl nodded, and continued with his task of seeing the young ladies comfortably settled. He was a tall, elegant man about five or six years older than the Countess, with brown hair greying at the temples, and dressed in the prevailing style. After everyone was seated, he dropped into a chair alongside Sir George Denham, and the two men were soon deep in conversation.
“We had an unexpected visitor today,” remarked Lady Nevern, as she settled herself beside her friend on the sofa. “You’ll recall the Eversleys, Sophie? That youngest son of theirs, Frederick, called in on his way down to Brighton to see James. He’s going down for the Races, and is trying to persuade James to accompany him. Let us hope he will not succeed,” she said, in a lower tone, sighing. “However, I have not seen Freddy Eversley since he was a schoolboy, and such a change as there is in him! He’s now a fine, upstanding young man of four and twenty, with the Eversley hair and manner — for all the world like that eldest brother of his, whom everyone called the Beau. You won’t object to his making one of our party? He’s staying here overnight.”
Lady Denham had just begun to reassure her hostess on this point, for the inclusion of an eligible bachelor to the party could not be considered anything but an advantage, when the door opened to admit two gentlemen. One of them was obviously the young man whom Ariadne Nevern had that moment described; the second was some five years senior to Frederick Eversley, and bore such a marked resemblance to both the Earl and Countess that even those present who had never previously met him could have no difficulty in identifying him as Viscount Pamyngton.
To one person in the room, the realization came as a severe shock.
While the necessary introductions were being made, it suddenly occurred to Eleanor that her sister Catherine was behaving most oddly. At first, she stood stock still and stared, like any timid schoolgirl at her first social gathering. Louisa contrived to give her a gentle nudge so that she recovered sufficiently to make some response to the gentleman’s bows; but afterwards she sank back into her chair and sat there without uttering a word, the most peculiar expression on her face.
Eleanor felt a lively curiosity at this conduct. It was unheard of for Katie to sit silent in company, and especially when there were young men present. On such occasions, she was the greatest rattle of them all. What could it mean? Even if Katie had not wished to come here this evening, and might still be feeling a trifle vexed at being denied the long anticipated trip to Brighton, Eleanor knew her sister well enough to be certain that she would have decided to make the best of things and derive what entertainment she could from the visit. It was her way, as it was Eleanor’s, to take the present good and not to repine over the might have been.
She stole another look at her sister’s face. What a very odd expression came over it whenever it was turned in Viscount Pamyngton’s direction! What was it, exactly — shame, disgust, embarrassment? Something of all three, perhaps. But why? What could it mean?
Eleanor at last became conscious of the fact that Mr. Eversley, who had come to sit on her other side, was addressing some remark to her. She roused herself to answer him.
“I — I beg your pardon, sir? I fear I did not hear you perfectly.”
“It’s of no account, Miss Eleanor.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice, as though he had noticed her abstraction. “Some inanity about the weather, merely, and you do very well to ignore it.”
Eleanor flashed him a quick smile. “But we cannot afford to ignore the weather, sir,” she said, with mock demureness. “Conversationally, where should we be without it? It’s a tried and trusty friend, and I have been taught not to neglect old friends.”
His green eyes twinkled. “Have you, indeed? That makes me wish that I might be included in their number. How long, now, do you suppose it might be, ma�
�am, before I could hope to qualify?”
“Oh, I have a friendly enough disposition, Mr. Eversley, in general; but an old friend — that is something it takes years to make,” she answered, with a prim look which belied the sparkle in her eyes.
“It shall be my earnest endeavour from this day forward to earn the title. Only tell me how I may serve you, ma’am. Are there no dragons you wish slain, no treasures to be fetched back from far distant corners of the earth? Name the task, and it’s as good as done, I assure you.”
Her clear laugh rang out above the buzz of conversation in the room. “I see you are a humourist, sir. Katie,” turning to the silent figure at her side, “here is Mr. Eversley offering to slay dragons on our behalf. Pray talk to him,” she added, quickly, in an undertone, “for if you sit there quiet any longer, it will be remarked.”
Catherine gave a little start, and coloured slightly; but the reproof succeeded in rousing her to take part in a light-hearted conversation with her sister and Frederick Eversley. Meanwhile Viscount Pamyngton was chatting with Sir George and Lady Denham, occasionally addressing a remark to Louisa, who was sitting near her parents.
Catherine’s return to gaiety was short-lived. When the party presently adjourned to the dining-room, she found herself seated at table between her father and Viscount Pamyngton, with Eleanor and Frederick Eversley opposite. It was not so easy now to join in their conversation; and for a time her neighbour, Viscount Pamyngton, was engaged in talking to Louisa, who was seated on his other side.
Presently he turned towards Catherine, however, murmuring some polite enquiry about the dish she was being offered at the time. She answered him hurriedly, scarcely knowing what she said. He regarded her gravely, and after the footman had moved to serve those farther up the table, he said, softly, “Am I forgiven?”
“Forgiven? I — I don’t quite know what you mean,” she stammered.
A Season at Brighton Page 4
