by Annie Haynes
“Yes, Sturgess, this is Miss Mary’s child,” Mr. Hurst assented.
He took Polly’s cold, thin little hand in his and led her across the hall. Old Sturgess cleared his throat gruffly as he preceded them.
“It seems to bring the old time back, sir,” he observed apologetically.
Mr. Hurst made no reply; he was wondering how the coming interview would end. He, knew that the child who was now clinging nervously to him symbolized the bitterest trouble and humiliation of her life to the lonely old woman who was now awaiting them.
Mrs. Davenant had not been a young woman twenty-one years before when that terrible grief had overtaken her, but assuredly from that time she had become old—all her comely middle-age had fled, her hair had grown white, her face lined and marked, her slight frame bowed, Yet there had been many who had blamed her and said that, in her intense love for her son, she had in a measure neglected her daughter —that she had been harsh and imperious with the girl who, as a child, had always been at her father’s heels in the garden and round the stables and as a young woman had been in the habit of taking long, lonely rides. The end had come suddenly; a suitor, favoured by Mrs. Davenant, had been refused by her daughter, there had been a period of bickering, and recrimination, useless insistence on the mother’s side, obstinate refusal on the daughter’s, and then one morning the neighbourhood had been electrified to hear that Miss Mary Davenant had eloped with her groom.
It had been a terrible scandal of course; thenceforward Mary Davenant’s name was never uttered in her old home. It was rumoured in the neighbourhood that more than once she had written to her parents, but that her letters had been returned unopened. It was said that the father was harder than the mother. Be that as it might, it was certain that when Squire Davenant was making his will some tender recollection of the pretty, dark-eyed daughter who had been the joy of his life must have obtruded itself, and for once he had dared to disregard his wife’s wishes and to add a clause which stated that, failing his son, Guy, and his heirs, the children of his daughter Mary should succeed to the property. That his independent action had been a bitter pill to his widow, none could doubt, but she had given no sign of her mortification.
The door was thrown open. A little old lady occupied the chair in the centre of the room just under the electric light—a pretty, dainty old lady, whose pink-and-white complexion and elaborately-waved white hair gave her the appearance of a Dresden china shepherdess.
Mr. Hurst led Polly to her at once.
“You see I have fulfilled my commission, Mrs. Davenant.”
“I see.”
The old lady smiled as she looked at the child, who quailed before her gaze. Polly’s small, icy fingers instinctively clung to Mr. Hurst’s warm hand. Here at least was something tangible, human; anything, she thought vaguely, was better than meeting the gaze of those blue eyes, than being expected to respond to that cold smile.
“So this is my new granddaughter, is it?” Mrs. Davenant said in clear, silvery tones that seemed to hold a ring of her lost youth. “Be good enough to stand aside, Mr. Hurst, and let me look at her!”
Thus adjured, Mr. Hurst had no choice but to obey. He was compelled to disregard the child’s mute appeal and release the unwilling fingers.
Polly never forgot her feeling of misery as she stood by herself in the blaze of light, the one incongruous element in the luxuriously furnished room.
So they waited for a moment; the drooping brown eyes raised themselves reluctantly and met the mocking gaze of the blue ones.
The merciless scrutiny included all the child’s defects of costume—the shabby, ill-fitting blue cashmere that had been her Sunday best, the big white pinafore peeping out in front from beneath the cloak that had been Mrs. Spencer’s and had been cut down for Polly, the child’s thin face, the big, frightened eyes, the untidy wisps of hair beneath the sailor-hat, the long thin arms and legs.
Then at last Mrs. Davenant laid her lorgnette down and smiled again.
“So this is the heiress of Davenant Hall! You are a brave man, Mr. Hurst.”
Mr. Hurst moved uncomfortably. Long as he had known Mrs. Davenant, he had never learnt to feel at home with her.
“Not of necessity the heiress,” he ventured to remind her. “There is another daughter, Evelyn.”
“Who has followed her mother’s example, and run away from home, I think you told me.” Mrs. Davenant shut up her lorgnette with a snap. “I don’t think we will trouble about Evelyn, thank you, Mr. Hurst!”
But at the mention of that familiar name some of little Polly’s hardly-won composure deserted her.
“Oh, I want Evie!” she cried, with a miserable sob; then, falling on her knees at her grandmother’s feet, “Oh, please, please, send for Evie!”
Mrs. Davenant looked at her with cold distaste as she drew her velvet gown out of the child’s reach.
“Really, I am afraid that this child is going to be troublesome! May I trouble you to ring the bell, Mr. Hurst? Ah, Mason,” as an elderly woman appeared. “Will you take Miss—Miss—Really I have not thought what we are to call the child, Mr. Hurst; Polly is impossible of course, and Mary”—a momentary contraction passing over her delicate features—“I do not care for Mary. Her name is Mary Ursula Joan, I think. Well, Joan was my mother’s name, but it will have to serve. Take Miss Joan to her nursery, Mason, and see that she has some bread and milk. Don’t let me see her again until she had learnt to control herself.”
Mason took the child’s hand in hers.
“Come, Miss Joan,” she said kindly.
The forlorn child found herself guided across the dreadful space that lay between her and the door; then, when it, had closed behind them she was caught up in the woman’s strong arms. “Ay, my child, don’t let the mistress frighten you! I’ll look after you, my Miss Mary’s own child!”
Chapter Three
“THE MARRISTORS and the Stourminsters have accepted, Joan, and this new man, Lord Warchester—you saw him with Reggie the other day. Aunt Ursula will simply have to let you come.”
“If you can get Granny to realize the strength of your argument—” Joan Davenant shrugged her shapely shoulders, a slight enigmatical smile curving the corners of her mouth.
The years had changed the neglected child of Grove Street Mews into a remarkably good-looking young woman. Tall and straight, with a certain resemblance to the Davenants in the modelling of her features and the set of her firm chin, she had inherited from a plebeian ancestry on her father’s side a strength of constitution, a soundness of mind and limb that made her vigorous youth a joy to look upon. Her eyes were brown, flecked with gold; her hair and the long upcurled lashes were black in the shadow, amber in the sunlight.
Her companion, Cynthia Trewhistle, the wife of Reginald Trewhistle, Mrs. Davenant’s nephew, was considerably Joan’s senior, a little, delicate-looking woman with fluffy golden hair and big, appealing grey eyes. Her dainty white cloth costume and big black picture hat were curiously in contrast with Joan’s shabby blue serge gown and plain straw hat.
The two were walking up the park towards the Hall. The March sunshine which streamed down upon them and made Mrs. Trewhistle loosen her sables, despite the touch of frost in the air, showed up with cruel distinctness the frayed seams of Joan’s frock, but found no flaw in the firm whiteness of her skin or the brilliant colour mantling in her cheeks.
Mrs. Trewhistle slipped her arm within the girl’s.
“It’s a shame the way Aunt Ursula treats you! I was saying so to Reggie before I started. Here are you wasting your youth and beauty cooped up in this dull old place—for you are beautiful you know, Joan,” giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. “You have never been to Court, you have never been to a dance, or a picnic even, or any of the delightful things that every girl expects.”
“On the other hand I have had a good many things that my father’s daughter could not have expected,” said Joan quietly.
Mrs. Trewhistle’s face c
louded.
“Bother your father!” she exclaimed impetuously. “I beg your pardon, Joan—I suppose I ought not to have said that, but you and Aunt Ursula are really too old-fashioned. The idea of worrying about your father nowadays! You are unusually good-looking, you are the greatest heiress in the county, and that is all that matters.”
“Is it?” Joan said absently. She stooped and picking three early daffodils tucked them in her belt.
“Yes, of course it is!” Mrs. Trewhistle assured her with decision. “Now, Joan, I am going to see Aunt Ursula. I am frightened to death of her, as you know, but I mean you to come to my dance.”
“It will not be any use, Cynthia, but if you like—”
Mrs Trewhistle quickened her steps.
“We will go at once while my courage is screwed up to the sticking-point. Come, Joan!”
The girl looked down affectionately at her companion more than once; her friendship for her cousin’s wife was the one bright spot in a life which but for Cynthia would have been dull indeed. Sometimes Joan was tempted to wonder why her grandmother had sent for her to Warchester, why she had troubled herself about her upbringing at all; it was so very evident that old Mrs. Davenant had no love—scarcely even any toleration—for her dead daughter’s child.
Joan could look back to her coming to Warchester with a kind of detached pity for the lonely child who had found the new life so difficult and so alarming. She could not recall one sign of sympathy, one word of affection from her grandmother, and but for Mason, her mother’s old nurse, her lot would have been lonely indeed. To the best of her powers Mason had mothered her, had rejoiced in her health and strength. It had been through Mason that her few pleasures had been obtained.
For as time went on Mrs. Davenant had developed habits of parsimony. Her own gowns came from Paris; though she never went out she was as elegantly dressed as in her youth; but for Joan it was a different matter. The very plainest of stuff was good enough for her—made up by the village dress-maker. The girl’s governesses had found themselves restricted in every way with regard to her education.
Joan had done with governesses now, for the last two years she had been her own mistress, but beyond the actual ceasing of lessons the fact of being grown up scarcely affected her life at all. Her grandmother made her no dress allowance. The only visitors who were ever received at the Hall were the old vicar of the parish and his wife and Reggie and Cynthia Trewhistle. Even with them Joan’s intercourse was very much restricted. Cynthia Trewhistle had grumbled to her husband ever since her marriage at the state of seclusion in which Joan was kept; to-day she had come with the express determination of “having it out” with Mrs. Davenant.
Nevertheless, the awe in which she stood of her aunt by marriage was considerable; her knees were quaking as she mounted the steps to the front door.
Joan led the way across the hall to the room to which Mr. Hurst had brought her, a shivering, frightened child, ten years before.
“Here is Cynthia, granny,” she said, as she opened the door.
Mrs. Davenant looked up. She was sitting at her writing table, apparently immersed in correspondence. Joan often wondered to whom these lengthy epistles were sent, since comparatively few letters came to the Hall. Time had dealt lightly with Mrs. Davenant; she was scarcely altered since that memorable evening when Joan arrived at the Hall; the lines round her mouth were a little deeper, the tiny network of wrinkles round her eyes had spread a little, but that was all. There was still that resemblance to a Dresden china shepherdess.
“How do you do, Cynthia? You are here betimes,” she said slowly.
“I came early because I wanted to ask you something, Aunt Ursula,” Mrs. Trewhistle began boldly, taking the bull by the horns, as she afterwards phrased it to her husband.
Mrs. Davenant raised her pencilled eyebrows.
“Indeed! Well, you, know that anything I can do, dear Cynthia—”
“Well, you really can do this quite easily.” Mrs. Trewhistle’s colour came and went quickly despite her courage. There was something most disconcerting in the gaze of those blue eyes. “You know next week I am having a dance—”
“Ah, yes!” Mrs. Davenant nodded. “I remember you were good enough to send me an invitation. Well, go on, my dear.”
“I want you to let Joan come,’’ Cynthia went on desperately. “Oh, I know you never go out, Aunt Ursula, but it is quite a small dance really. We would take every care of Joan, and really she ought to go out sometimes. It is not fair to keep a young girl shut up altogether.”
There was a pause; Cynthia did not dare to raise her eyes. Chatter away though she might at other times, she always felt it an effort to speak to her husband’s aunt; she was well aware that even this very mild remonstrance would border upon audacity in the old lady’s eyes.
“You are really very kind,” said Mrs. Davenant at last. “But I thought you understood—I imagined I had fully explained it to Reginald, at any rate—that I think it better that Joan should not go out. Therefore, my dear Cynthia—”
“Oh, yes, I know, and I think, as Reggie thinks, that it is an awful shame!” Mrs. Trewhistle retorted hotly, her sense of Mrs. Davenant’s injustice to the girl whom she had learnt to love as a sister overcoming her fear of the old lady. “It is cruel to make her waste her life like this! What good is it to her to be the heiress to Davenant Hall if she never goes anywhere, never sees anybody?”
“‘The heiress of Davenant Hall—ah!” said Mrs. Davenant. “And so Joan has been getting you to speak for her; my dear?”
Joan was leaning with one arm against the high oak mantel piece, her fingers gently touching the daffodils in her belt, her head bent; apparently she had been taking no interest in the conversation. She glanced at her grandmother now.
“I did not get Cynthia to speak,” she said quietly. “I told her that it would be no use.”
“Yes, indeed, she tried to stop me,” Cynthia went on impetuously. “It was I who had quite determined to ask you. You will let Joan come, will you not, Aunt Ursula? It is going to be a great success. The new Lord Warchester has accepted—you remember how fond poor Guy was of him when he was Paul Wilton—and—oh, lots of people! It will simply break my heart if Joan is not allowed to come!”
“Oh, really, my dear Cynthia, I do not think hearts are broken quite so easily!” and the old lady laughed amusedly.
Joan looked at her quickly as she heard the sound.
“What does the heiress of Davenant Hall say in the matter?” Mrs. Davenant went on, a little sarcastic inflection in her voice.
“I should like to go, naturally,” Joan said composedly. “But you know I never ask favours from you, granny.”
“No, no—it is I. Aunt Ursula, do for once!” Cynthia pleaded.
Mrs. Davenant glanced at her anxious face coldly.
“I do not see why it should be any satisfaction to you, but—”
“You will!” Cynthia cried, clasping her hands. “Aunt Ursula, it is perfectly sweet of you!”
“That is settled then!” Mrs. Davenant took up a paper as though to intimate that the interview was ended.
Cynthia turned to Joan.
“Is it not perfectly delightful? About your dress? Of course you have nothing”—with a disparaging glance at the blue serge—“but I dare say, for me, Madame Benoit would get one done in time.”
“Ah, that will be my affair!” Mrs. Davenant had caught the whispered words. “Do not trouble Benoit, Cynthia. I may have lived out of the world for some time, but I imagine I am still capable of ordering my granddaughter’s dresses.”
“Oh, of course, of course! You know I did not mean that, Aunt Ursula!”
Cynthia was glad to get out of the room.
“Horrid old thing!” she whispered to Joan. “How you stand her I cannot imagine. However, you are coming to the ball, that is the great thing. I wish she would have let me order the gown, though; she is sure to get something awful. I would order you one myself, inde
pendently of her and make you change, but really there have been so many expenses of late, Reggie has been frightfully extravagant, and I have not been a bit lucky at bridge, so that—”
“As if I should let you! No, Granny must do her best, or her worst, and if I come to your dance like a frump—well, you must just turn me away, that’s all.”
When Joan waved her last farewell to Mrs. Trewhistle, and that lady’s motor was speeding swiftly down the drive she found a footman at her elbow.
“Mrs. Davenant would be glad to see you again, miss.” Joan went slowly back to the morning-room, the momentary brightening caused by Cynthia’s presence fading from her face.
“You wanted me, granny?” she said on the threshold.
“Yes.” Mrs. Davenant took up a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her pen in the ink. “Come in and close the door, Joan. So you are going to have your wish—you are going to Cynthia’s dance? And now—now I am thinking how I can best fulfil another request of yours.”
“Indeed!” Joan raised her eyebrows slightly as she obeyed the old lady’s request. “So much of my own way will surely be bad for me, granny. I shall be getting a swelled head. What is this request of mine that you have in your mind now? I was under the impression that I had carefully abstained from making any.”
Mrs. Davenant watched her face keenly.
“Possibly you have forgotten this; you may even have changed your mind; it is years since I heard you mention it. But when you first came—Ah, I see you remember it!” as Joan changed colour—“you used to ask me to send for Evelyn, to find Evelyn. Well, now,” with one of the laughs that Joan hated, “I am going to write to Mr. Hurst, bidding him to set to work to find Evelyn!”
Chapter Four
“YOU LOOK just the same as usual, Joan.”
“That does not sound complimentary,” said Joan, an amused look in her eyes. “I am afraid that if you expected a transformation you will be disappointed, Cynthia.”
“Oh, you know what I mean! I thought that Aunt Ursula, having allowed you to come, would have given you heaps of new things. Not but what you look very nice, Joan”—with an apologetic kiss—“and as long as the gown for to-night is all right—what is it like?”
