by Anthea Bell
Grenville Royden, whose neglect of his inheritance had thrown a number of people out of work, was not a popular figure locally. But Lord Conington, while not previously known to the landlord and his wife, had introduced himself as Miss Charlotte’s future husband, and Miss Charlotte had always been a prime favourite in the village. Her betrothed was instantly recognized as Quality of the Right Sort, the more so as he had bestowed some pretty generous vails earlier in the evening, while providently ordering the private parlour to which the party (now numbering two more) had returned, and also vouching for his foreign friends while they cast Squire into the pond. And certain it was, said the landlord, that my lord had known the phaeton that wasn’t Squire’s directly. The gentleman as it did belong to, the landlord now asserted, glancing at the coin Sir Edmund had slipped into his hand, was another of the Right Sort too! As for the clergyman, what he was doing in the party none could tell, unless so be as he had a special licence to marry somebody to somebody else. Though it was a puzzle to know who, Miss Charlotte herself not being present.
Few of the visitors could have offered much enlightenment as to Mr. Spalding’s business in their company, either. He himself, deprived for once of speech by the rapid course of events, and having in any case met his vocal match in Persephone, had subsided into a comfortable chair in one corner of the pleasant, oak-beamed parlour, and was merely muttering, under his breath, “Dear me! First Mr. Royden, now Sir Edmund! I do not know—I really do not know!”
No one but Elinor heard this, and when Sir Edmund, his colloquy with the landlord concluded, entered the room and closed the door behind him (to the disappointment of such of the inn servants as had hoped to learn more about this sudden influx of gentry), the clergyman fell entirely silent.
Not so Mr. Walter, who took Sir Edmund’s arrival as the signal to rise to his feet. Standing very straight, he announced, “Sir Edmund! I wish to speak with you!”
“Do,” said Sir Edmund, amiably. “I thought you had been speaking with me for the past thirty minutes or so, but pray continue. Ah, they’ve brought the claret. Have some, Mr. Walter. Are you and the Larks provided for, Conington? Excellent! Elinor, you must drink some too; it will do you good.”
“I mean,” stated Mr. Walter, cutting across all this, “that I have something very particular to say to you.” Persephone nodded vigorous assent. “At my father’s behest, sir, I have been to Germany, where I was offered and have formally accepted the post of Kapellmeister to the court of His Highness Prince Ernst Ludwig of Heldenburg. The post carries with it a salary which, I believe, may well be considered munificent, for the Prince is a considerable patron of the art of music. I have also been to my home at Adelstein—”
“Adelstein?” said Sir Edmund, his attention suddenly caught. He looked keenly at Robert Walter for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair, sipping his claret. “Go on.”
“I went to my home to tell my father and mother of my intention of marrying, and I now, Sir Edmund, beg to ask your leave to pay my addresses, in due form, to your ward, Miss Persephone Grafton.” With which he glared rather defiantly at Sir Edmund.
“Very nicely put!” said that gentleman, affably. “Yes. Do have some of this claret; it really is quite tolerable.”
“But what do you say?” cried Persephone, in tones of anguished impatience.
“Yes. Didn’t you hear me?”
Miss Grafton was looking almost aghast at the simplicity of it. “You mean you will allow us to marry?”
“Yes,” said Sir Edmund patiently, for the third time. “I have for some while been of the opinion that Mr. Walter is an admirable and sensible young man, just the person for you, Persephone. Besides, as you rightly surmised he might, he has earned my—what was it?—undying gratitude by throwing Royden into that duckpond for me. Also, and perhaps most important of all, Elinor approves of him as your husband. I suspect,” he finished cheerfully, “you may be very happy together.”
“Oh?!” cried Persephone, and flung her arms first around Mr. Walter, then Sir Edmund, and finally Elinor, exclaiming through tears of joy, “Oh, thank you, Elinor, thank you! I owe it all to you! My life will not be blighted after all, and I shall not be cut off without a penny!”
“It does not matter if you are cut off, Seffi,” said Mr. Walter, with the air of one who has explained a point many times before, “since I was determined not to offer for you until I knew I could respectably support you, without assistance from your own family or mine.”
“You know, I couldn’t cut her off without a penny even if I wished to; the money is left in trust, but it is her own,” Sir Edmund put in mildly, but the lovers were paying him no attention.
“It is my father, dearest Seffi, who is still to be won over,” Robert Walter was continuing earnestly. “But when we approach him together, you, I know, will be able to do it.”
Persephone did look a little daunted at this prospect, but nodded hopefully. “He is not, perhaps, so formidable a man as he may seem, my father,” Mr. Walter went on. “You do not know him Seffi, but—”
“But I rather think I do,” remarked Sir Edmund.
“What?” said Mr. Walter, gazing blankly at him.
“I said: I believe I know your father,” repeated Sir Edmund, studying the wine in his glass. “As soon as you mentioned Adelstein, I knew who it was of whom you had reminded me now and then, ever since I first met you. Though I didn’t know old Sigismund had a son who had taken up music as a profession. Yes, I fancy your father is a very old acquaintance and—er—occasional adversary of mine at the conference table. Would I be right in supposing him to be Count Sigismund Heinrich Walter von und zu Adelstein?”
For once, Mr. Walter was taken aback. “Yes, sir,” he said, quite meekly, “you would!”
“Why in the world,” inquired Sir Edmund with interest, “aren’t you using your full name? Nothing to be ashamed of, you know!”
“I wish, sir, to belong to the aristocracy of the Muses, and no other!” said Mr. Walter, a little stiffly. “The estate, besides, will go to my elder brother, and—”
“Yes, yes, all very well, but—ah, good, here comes supper!” said Sir Edmund, interrupting himself as two rosy maidservants entered bearing laden platters. “Just the thing! Elinor, my love, you must be famished. Persephone, stop staring so, and have some of this cold fowl, which looks excellent. Now where was I?” as the door closed again after the maids. “Yes—did it never occur to you, Robert, that you might have saved yourself and Persephone a good deal of trouble merely by letting me know that you were your father’s son?”
“But you said,” pointed out Persephone, “that Robert’s father was an adversary of yours.”
This appeared to amuse Sir Edmund, who said, “My dear Persephone! In the friendliest and most mutually appreciative of manners! You know, I really do not believe there is any need for you to anticipate a further career in the role of star-crossed lover! By the by, and just as a matter of interest, have you told your father the extent of Persephone’s fortune, Robert?”
“I should scorn to do so!” said Mr. Walter, stiffening up again. “Besides—”
“Besides, you too rather fancied yourself in the star-crossed line,” said Sir Edmund, sighing. “Just like your own Sempronius and—what was the girl’s name?”
“Angelina. Anyway, he couldn’t tell anyone the extent of my fortune,” pointed out Persephone. “He doesn’t know it. I don’t know it myself.”
“No, I suppose you don’t. I foresee,” said Sir Edmund, with considerable enjoyment, “an interesting time haggling over marriage settlements with my friend Sigismund. It will certainly make a change!” He caught Elinor’s eye, and said with a chuckle, “Wait until you meet the gentleman we are discussing, my dear one. You will then see where Robert here gets his remarkable determination. Prince Ernst Ludwig has a very formidable and wily minister in old Adelstein. But never fear, he will take to Persephone—and he will certainly take to you when you become acquainted.�
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“Is Elinor going to become acquainted with Robert’s papa?” inquired Persephone, bewildered.
“I don’t see why not,” said her guardian. “Very pretty place, Heldenburg: you’ll like it, Elinor. Castles and torrents and cascades and so forth, just in the true romantic line! How would you like to go there on the second part of our wedding journey?”
“Very much,” said Elinor demurely, aware that she would happily have agreed to visit the North Pole on her wedding journey had that been Sir Edmund’s suggestion.
“Why not the first part of your wedding journey?” demanded Persephone.
“Because I want Elinor to myself for a while, before we become any further embroiled in your affairs, Persephone. Italy first, I thought—you’ve never been to Italy, have you, Elinor? You’ll like that, too.”
“But in any case, you will get married soon, won’t you?” Persephone urged her guardian.
“As soon as it can possibly be contrived,” said he, obligingly.
At this point Mr. Spalding, who had been sitting in his corner, two of the Lark Quartet very kindly plying him with claret and cold chicken (which he was relishing despite his inability to keep up with the general course of events), found his tongue again.
“Strange!” he remarked. “Very strange. I fear, Elinor, it argues a remarkable lack of steadiness in you.”
“What does?” said Sir Edmund, his good humour evaporating with alarming rapidity.
“It appears that she is betrothed to you! Miss Radley, I mean. But,” said Mr. Spalding, shaking his head, “quite apart from running away with Mr. Royden, not once but twice, she was betrothed to me!” He sounded quite plaintive.
“No, I was not!” said Elinor roundly, a good deal put out.
“No, she certainly was not,” Sir Edmund agreed. “My dear sir, weeks ago, in Cheltenham, I myself heard her refuse you in the most categorical manner.”
“One was not to suppose,” complained Mr. Spalding, “that that was final! One does not, I may say, expect such conduct in the wife of—”
But seeing that Sir Edmund was obviously preparing to say something very crushing indeed, Miss Radley hastily intervened. “I dare say one doesn’t! Pray, Edmund, leave this to me, because it is perfectly clear that he will take no notice of anything one says, so you at least may as well save your breath. Samuel, you must see by now that you are very well out of any imaginary contract you may have supposed to exist between us—and purely imaginary it was, I do assure you! Well! You have indicated yourself that you are better off out of it, and I think you should go home to Cheltenham and—and marry Miss Dunn!”
“Hm,” said Mr. Spalding.
“Who is Miss Dunn?” inquired Sir Edmund, amused.
“She will make you,” Elinor pursued, “the most admirable wife.”
“Hm,” repeated Mr. Spalding, and then, after a moment’s consideration, said, “There may be something in what you say. Yes, there may indeed be something in it. I believe I will think the matter over. I will sleep on it—yes, that is what I shall do, and in the morning we shall see what counsels prevail. Good night, Elinor. Good night, Sir Edmund.” And he withdrew, contenting himself with a stiff bow to the rest of the company.
“Can he sleep on it—here, I mean?” asked Conington. “Has anyone asked if they have a room for him?”
“Yes, I have, and they do,” Sir Edmund disclosed. “There will be rooms, as well, for Franz and Josef and Johann, and Robert too if he wishes. The landlord can’t provide fresh horses for the britzka till morning—however, you will have a pair tonight, Conington, for you must be wishing to return to Charlotte, and I’ll be obliged if you will take Persephone with you. Whether you all squeeze up for Robert to make a third in the curricle I must leave it to the three of you to settle! I am taking Elinor back to London now, and no one is going to make a third with us!” he said firmly.
Out in the stable yard, as the phaeton, with a pair of fresh horses between its shafts, moved gently away, he said again, “Do tell me more about Miss Dunn. I believe I’ve heard you extol her merits to Spalding before.”
“Well, she is a very worthy lady,” said Elinor.
“Plain?” he surmised.
“Rather plain, I own, but that she cannot help! And she would make Samuel Spalding a very good wife—and she would be so glad to marry him!”
“Setting up as matchmaker along with Bella, are you?” said Bella’s brother, smiling.
“No,” replied Elinor, smiling back at him, “but I am so happy that I suppose I should like everyone else to be getting married and just as happy about it too!” At which he naturally felt obliged to rein in his horses and kiss her once again.
“It must,” he observed, “be something in the air.”
“Good God—it is something in the air!” she exclaimed a moment later, emerging from his embrace. “They are at it again! Listen, Edmund!”
He listened, and found that she was right. The window of the parlour in the Green Dragon stood open, and someone had evidently produced a couple of the musical instruments which the Lark Quartet seemed to carry constantly about their persons. He thought he heard a flute, and the horn again. To the accompanying strains of these instruments, the stirring finale of Boadicea Queen of Britain, in all its absurd splendour, came floating out to them through the peaceful dark of the Essex countryside.
“All hail to the Patron of marriage and mirth!
Was ever such merriment known upon earth?”
“The answer to that is no!” said Sir Edmund. “No, decidedly not!” And he let the horses move on.
Anthea Bell was born in England, where she lives today. She has specialized in the field of translation from French and German into English; a notable example of her work is the famous Asterix cartoon series. A London Season is her first novel.
