But hardly had the board been set out than it had to be put away again, for a late caller arrived, in the person of Lord Beckenham. He had come to enquire after Miss Wychwood. He had only that very afternoon heard of her indisposition, for he had been obliged to visit the Metropolis at the beginning of the week. He explained at somewhat tedious length that he had stopped to eat his dinner at the Ship before continuing his journey, why he had done so, how he had come by the distressing news, and how he had been unable to wait until the next day before coming to discover how Miss Wychwood was going on. He did not know what she, and her ladyship, must have been thinking of him for not having called days ago.
He stayed to drink tea with them, and by the time he left Sir Geoffrey was heartily sick of him, and, having seen him off the premises, informed his wife that if he had to listen to any more forty-jawed persons that day he would go straight off to bed.
Chapter 15
Miss Wychwood, next morning, declared herself to be so much better as to be in a capital way. Jurby did not think that she looked to be in a capital way at all, and strenuously opposed her determination to get up. “I must get up!” said Miss Wychwood, rather crossly. “How am I ever to be myself again, if you keep me in bed, which of all things I most detest? Besides, my brother is coming to see me this morning, and I will not allow him to find me languishing in my bed, looking as if I were on the point of cocking up my toes!”
“We’ll see what the doctor says, miss!” said Jurby.
But when Dr Tidmarsh came to visit his patient, just as her almost untouched breakfast had been removed, he annoyed Jurby by saying that it would do Miss Wychwood good to leave her bed for an hour or two, and lie on the sofa. “I don’t think she should dress herself, but her pulse has been normal now since yesterday, and it won’t harm her to slip on a dressing-gown, and sit up for a little while.”
“Heaven bless you, doctor!” said Miss Wychwood.
“Ah, that sounds more like yourself, ma’am!” he said laughingly.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jurby, “Miss Wychwood is not at all like herself! And it is my duty to inform you, sir, that she swallowed only three spoonfuls of the pork jelly she had for her dinner last night, and has had nothing for her breakfast but some tea, and a few scraps of toast!”
“Well, well, we must tempt her appetite, mustn’t we? I have no objection to her having a little chicken, say, or even a slice of boiled lamb, if she should fancy it.”
“The truth is that I don’t fancy anything,” confessed Annis. “I have quite lost my appetite! But I will try to eat some chicken, I promise!”
“That’s right!” he said. “Spoken like the sensible woman I know you to be, ma’am!”
Miss Wychwood might be a sensible woman, but the attack of influenza had left her feeling much more like one of the foolish, tearful creatures whom she profoundly despised, for ever lying on sofas, with smelling-salts clutched in their feeble hands, and always dependent on some stronger character to advise and support them. She had heard that influenza often left its victims subject to deep dejection, and she now knew that this was true. Never before had she been so blue-devilled that she felt it was a pity she had ever been born, or that it was too much trouble to try to rouse herself from her listless depression. She told herself that this contemptible state really did arise from her late illness; and that to lie in bed, with nothing better to do than to think how weak and miserable she felt, was merely to encourage her blue-devils. So she refused to yield to the temptation to remain in bed, but got up presently, found that her legs had become inexplicably wayward (“as though the bones had been taken out of them!” she told Jurby, trying to laugh), and was glad to accept the support of Jurby’s strong arm on her somewhat tottery progress to her dressing-table. A glance at her reflection in the mirror did nothing to improve her spirits. “Heavens, Jurby!” she exclaimed. “What a fright I am! I have a good mind to send you out to buy a pot of rouge for me!”
“Well, I wouldn’t buy you any such thing, Miss Annis! Nor you don’t look a fright. Just a trifle hagged, which is only to be expected after such a nasty turn as you’ve had. When I’ve given your hair a good brushing, and pinned it up under the pretty lace cap you bought only last week, you won’t know yourself!”
“I don’t know myself now,” said Miss Wychwood. “Oh, well! I suppose it doesn’t signify: Sir Geoffrey never notices whether one is looking one’s best or one’s worst—but I do wish I had asked you to paper my hair last night!”
“Well, your hair don’t signify either, miss, for I shall tuck it into your cap,” replied her unsympathetic handmaid. “And it’s such a warm day there’s no reason why you shouldn’t wear that lovely dressing-gown you had made for you, and haven’t worn above two or three times—the satin one, with the blue posies embroidered all over it, and the lace fichu. That will make you feel much more like yourself, won’t it?”
“I hope so, but I doubt it,” said Miss Wychwood.
However, when she had been arrayed in the expensive dressing-gown, and had herself tied the strings of the lace cap under her chin, she admitted that she didn’t look quite such a mean bit.
Sir Geoffrey was admitted shortly after eleven o’clock, and so far from not noticing that she was not looking her best he was so much shocked by her white face, and heavy eyes that he forgot the injunctions laid upon him and ejaculated: “Good God, Annis! Dashed if I’ve ever seen you look so knocked-up! Poor old lady, what a devil of a time you’ve been having! And when I think that it was that infernal bagpipe who gave it you I could—Well, never mind!” he added, belatedly remembering his instructions. “No use working ourselves up! Now, I’ll tell you what Amabel and I wish you to do, and that is to come to Twynham as soon as you’re well enough to travel, and pay us a long visit. How would that be?”
“Delightful! Thank you: how kind of you both! But tell me, how do you find Tom?”
He never needed much encouragement to talk about his children, and spent the rest of his brief stay thus innocuously employed. When he got up to go, he kissed her cheek, gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and said: “There, no one can accuse me of having stayed too long, or talked you to death, can they?”
“Certainly not! It has done me a great deal of good to have a chat with you, and I hope you’ll give me a look in later on.”
“Ay, to be sure I will! Ah, is that you, Jurby? Come to turn me out, have you? What a dragon you are! Well, Annis, be a good girl, and see how fast you can get back into high force! I am going to take Amabel for an airing now: just a gentle walk, you know; but I’ll look in on you when we come back.”
He then went off, and Jurby removed one of the cushions which was propping her mistress up, and adjured her to close her eyes, and have a nap before her nuncheon was brought up to her.
Lady Wychwood, having reluctantly handed her daughter over to Nurse, was very well pleased to go for an ambling walk with Sir Geoffrey, and not sorry when Lucilla refused an invitation to accompany them. She set off in the direction of the London Road, leaning on her husband’s arm, and saying: “How agreeable it is to be with you again, dearest! Now we can have a comfortable cose, without poor Maria’s breaking in on us!”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, when I coaxed you to come for a walk with me,” he said. “Devilish good notion of mine, wasn’t it?”
But he would not have thought it a good notion had he known that little more than ten minutes later Mr Carleton would be seeking admittance to Miss Wychwood’s house.
Limbury, opening the door to Mr Carleton, said that Miss Wychwood was not at home to visitors. Miss Wychwood, he said, had been unwell, and had not yet left her room.
“So I have already been informed,” said Mr Carleton. “Take my card up to her, if you please!”
Limbury received the card from him, and said, with a slight bow: “I will have it conveyed to Miss’s room, sir.”
“Well, don’t keep me standing on the doorstep!” said Mr C
arleton impatiently.
Limbury, an excellent butler, found himself at a loss, for he had never before encountered a morning caller of Mr Carleton’s calibre. Vulgar persons he could deal with; no other of Miss Wychwood’s friends would have demanded admittance when told that Miss Wychwood was not at home; and Sir Geoffrey, who disliked Mr Carleton, as Limbury was well aware, would certainly wish him to be excluded.
“I regret, sir, that it is not possible for you to see Miss Wychwood. Today is the first time she has been well enough to sit up for an hour or two, and her maid informs me that she had hardly enough strength to walk across the floor to the sofa. So I am persuaded you will understand that you cannot see her today.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Mr Carleton, rudely brushing past him into the hall. “Shut the door! Now take my card up to your mistress immediately, and tell her that I wish to see her!”
Limbury was affronted by Mr Carleton’s unceremonious entrance, and he by no means relished being given peremptory commands. He was about to reply with freezing dignity when a suspicion entered his head (he described it later to Mrs Wardlow as a blinding light) that he was confronting a man who was violently in love. To gentlemen in that condition much had to be forgiven, so he forgave Mr Carleton, and said in the fatherly way he spoke to Master Tom: “Now, you know I can’t do that, sir! I’ll tell Miss you called, but you can’t expect to see her when she has only just got up out of her bed!”
“I not only expect to see her, but I am going to see her!” replied Mr Carleton.
Fortunately for Limbury, he was rescued from his predicament by the appearance on the scene of Jurby, who came down the stairs, dropped the hint of a curtsy, and said: “Were you wishful to see Miss Annis, sir?”
“Not only wishful, but determined to see her! Are you her abigail?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Good! I have heard her speak of you, and I think your name is Jurby, and that you have been with Miss Wychwood for many years. Am I right?”
“I have been with her ever since she was a child, sir.”
“Good again! You must know her very well, and can tell me whether it will harm her to see me.”
“I don’t think it would harm her, sir, but I cannot take it upon myself to say whether she will be willing to receive you.”
“Ask her!”
She seemed to consider him dispassionately for a moment; and then said: “Certainly, sir. If you will be pleased to wait in the drawing-room, I will do so.”
She turned and went majestically up the stairs again; and Limbury, recovering from the shock of seeing the most formidable member of the household yield without a sign of disapproval to Mr Carleton’s outrageous demand, conducted him to the drawing-room. He was immensely interested in this unprecedented situation, and his enjoyment of it was no longer marred by fear of Sir Geoffrey’s wrath, because if Sir Geoffrey came the ugly he could now foist the blame of Mr Carleton’s intrusion on to Jurby.
Mr Carleton had not long to wait before Jurby came into the drawing-room, saying: “Miss Annis will be happy to receive you, sir. Please to come with me!” She conducted him up the second pair of stairs, and paused on the landing, and said: “I must warn you, sir, that Miss Annis is by no means fully restored to health. You will find her very pulled by the fever, and I hope you won’t agitate her.”
“I hope so too,” he replied.
She seemed to be satisfied with this reply, for she opened the door into Miss Wychwood’s bedroom, and ushered him in, saying in a voice wholly devoid of interest: “Mr Carleton, miss.”
She stayed, holding the door open, for a few moments, because when she had carried the news of Mr Carleton’s arrival to her mistress Miss Wychwood had behaved in an extremely agitated way, and had seemed not to know whether she wished to see him or not. She had started up from her recumbent position, uttering distractedly: “Mr Carleton? Oh, no, I cannot—Jurby, are you hoaxing me? Is he indeed here? Oh, why must he come back just when I am so hagged and miserably unwell? I won’t see him! He is the most detestable—Oh, whatever am I to do?”
“Well, miss, if you wish me to send him away, I’ll try my best to do it, but from the looks of him it’s likely he’ll order me to get out of the way, and come charging up the stairs, and the next thing you’ll know he’ll be knocking at your door—if he don’t walk in without knocking, which wouldn’t surprise me!”
Miss Wychwood gave an uncertain laugh. “Odious man! Take this horrid shawl away! If I must see him, I will not do so lying on the sofa as though I were dying of a deep decline!”
So, when Mr Carleton entered, he found Miss Wychwood seated at one end of the sofa, the train of her dressing-gown lying in soft folds at her feet and her glorious hair hidden under a lace cap. She had managed to regain a measure of composure, and said, in a tolerably steady voice: “How do you do? You must forgive me for receiving you like this: Jurby will have told you, I daresay, that I have been unwell, and am not yet permitted to leave my room.”
As she spoke, she tried to rise, but her knees shook so much that she was obliged to clutch at the arm of the sofa to save herself from falling. But even as she tottered Mr Carleton, crossing the room in two strides, caught her in his arms, and held her close, breast to breast, and fiercely kissed her.
“Oh!” gasped Miss Wychwood, making a feeble attempt to thrust him off. “How dare you? Let me go at once!”
“You’d tumble over if I did,” he said, and kissed her again.
“No, no, you must not! Oh, what an abominable person you are! I wish I had never met you!” declared Miss Wychwood, abandoning the unequal struggle to free herself, and subsiding limply within his powerful arms, and shedding tears into his shoulder.
At this point, Jurby, smiling dourly, withdrew, apparently feeling that Mr Carleton was very well able to deal with Miss Wychwood without her assistance.
“Don’t cry, my precious wet-goose!” said Mr Carleton, planting a third kiss under Miss Wychwood’s ear, which, as her head was resting on his shoulder, was the only place available to him.
A watery chuckle showed that Miss Wychwood’s sense of humour had survived the ravages of influenza. “I am not a wet-goose!”
“You can’t expect me to believe you if you don’t stop crying at once!” he said severely. He swept her off her feet as he spoke, and set her down again on the sofa, himself sitting beside her, taking her hands in his, and pressing a kiss into each pink palm. “Poor Honey!” he said. “What a wretched time you’ve been having, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but it is very unhandsome of you to call me a poor Honey!” she said, trying for a rallying note. “You had as well tell me that I’ve become a positive antidote! My glass has told me so already, so it won’t come as a shock to me!”
“Your glass lies. I see no change in you, except that you are paler than I like, and are wearing a cap, which I’ve not known you to do before.” He surveyed it critically. “Very fetching!” he approved. “But I think I prefer to see your guinea-curls. Will you feel obliged to wear caps when we are married?”
“But—are we going to be married?” she said.
“Well, of course we are! You don’t suppose I’m offering you a carte blanche, do you?”
That made her laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you were, for you are quite abominable, you know!”
“Wouldn’t you be surprised?” he demanded
Her eyes sank before the hard, questioning look in his. She said: “You needn’t glare at me! I only meant it for a joke! Of course it would surprise me!”
“Unamusing! Are you afraid I should be unfaithful to you? Is that why you said ‘are we to be married?’ as though you still had doubts?”
“No, I’m not afraid of that. After all, if you did become unfaithful I should only have myself to blame, shouldn’t I?”
The hard look vanished; he smiled. “I don’t think you would find many people to agree that you were to blame for my sins!”
“Anyone with a pa
rticle of commonsense would agree with me, because if you were to set up a mistress it would be because you had become bored with me.”
“Oh, if that’s the case we need not worry! But you do still have doubts, don’t you?”
“Not when you are with me,” she said shyly. “Only when I’m alone, and think of all the difficulties—what a very big step it would be—how much my brother would dislike it—I wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t be a mistake to marry you. And then I think that it would be a much greater mistake not to marry you, and I end by not knowing what I want to do! Mr Carleton, are you sure you want to marry me, and—and that I’m not a mere passing fancy?”
“What you are trying to ask me is whether I am sure we shall be happy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose that is what I mean,” she sighed.
“Well, I can’t answer you. How can I be sure that we shall be happy when neither of us has had any experience of marriage? All I can tell you is that I am perfectly sure I want to marry you, and equally sure that you are not a ‘mere passing fancy’ of mine—what a damned silly question to ask me! If I had ever been such a shuttlehead as to have asked one of my passing fancies to marry me, I shouldn’t be a bachelor today!—and there are two other things I am sure of! One is that I have never cared for any of the charmers with whom I’ve had agreeable connections as I care for you; and another is that I have never in my life wanted anything more than I want to win you for my own—to love, and to cherish, and to guard—Oh, damn it, Annis, how can I make you believe that I love you with my whole heart and body, and mind?” He broke off, and said sharply: “What have I said to make you cry? Tell me!”
“Nothing! I d-don’t know why I began to cry. I think it must be because I’m so happy, and I’ve been feeling so dreadfully miserable!” she replied, wiping her tears away, and trying to smile.
Mr Carleton took her back into his arms. “You’re thoroughly knocked-up, sweetheart. Damn that woman for having foisted her influenza on to you! Kiss me!”
Lady of Quality Page 27
