by Fiona Hill
He greeted Daphne and Latimer equably, asked Stickney who had won at billiards last night, inquired after Miss Frane’s health, and helped himself to some ham. Lady Ballard watched him closely through all of this, but did not say any thing until he had done eating. Then she sat down by him on a narrow sofa and asked “if there were any thing more she could bespeak for him?”
“No,” said Midlake. “I am quite content, thank you. Jolly good jam-puffs you’ve got there.”
“India makes them herself,” said her Ladyship.
Lord Midlake chewed on his lower lip.
“As for myself, I never could see what amusement there might be in cooking, but India haunts the kitchens constantly.”
Lord Midlake chewed on his upper lip.
“She looks pale, today, I think,” Lady Ballard went on. “I asked her to take some exercise, but she would not ride out with the others. She does not care for riding, you know.”
“Indeed,” said his Lordship.
“No, not very much. She will walk in the garden, some times, but usually not unless someone invites her to do so. I would go with her myself, except that I’ve got so much correspondence to take care of. Isn’t it dreadful the way one’s letters pile up!”
“Very dreadful” agreed Lord Midlake, chewing his lower lip again and pulling hard on one long ear.
“I don’t suppose you would care for a walk in the garden today?” suggested my Lady.
“O, on the contrary; I think I should indeed,” Lord Midlake conceded at last. “Perhaps Miss Ballard will be kind enough to come with me.” He breathed an heavy sigh.
Lady Ballard smiled. “I think she might. You must ask her yourself, though,” she added.
“Yes, yes…pardon me.” Lord Midlake rose and went to do as he was bid, the drooping corners of his mouth conveying resignation, if nothing else. Miss Ballard, of course, accepted his kind offer, and when the others went off to investigate the cellars of the Abbey—for they were extensive, and had rarely been explored in recent times—she and Walter Midlake walked out into the formal gardens.
These gardens were set out in a succession of rectangles, six or seven in all, which lay endwise to the Abbey and stretched almost to the edge of a little spinney beyond them. In the most distant of the rectangles was a small, ornamental pool; they had reached this place and stood beside it, talking, when the extraordinary incident occurred.
“O my,” said Miss Ballard, suddenly. “I do feel queer.” She put a hand to her forehead and pressed it to her temples.
“Perhaps you ought to sit down,” said Lord Midlake, indicating the low wall which surrounded the pool.
“O no—I do not think so…it will pass in a moment,” said she, breathing in very short breaths and blanching slightly beneath her freckles.
“Do you often have such symptoms?” Midlake was asking, when all at once, India fainted dead away in the direction of his arms. Lord Midlake had been about to pull on his right ear, but he stretched his arms out in time to catch her, and for a few instants stood there holding her with not the slightest notion what to do. As she gave no sign of recovering, it struck him that he might as well take her back to the Abbey, where some one could attend to her; and as she could not walk, he carried her. Thus it was that when the party of explorers emerged (disappointed in their search for any thing mysterious) from the cellars, they were greeted with the rather unusual spectacle of Lord Midlake with an unconscious young woman in his arms. Lady Ballard had seen him approaching through the gardens and had run out onto the terrace; now she directed him to carry India up to her bed-chamber, begging him to do so carefully, and appearing on the edge of a swoon herself. The concern of the erstwhile explorers was voiced in a score of anxious questions, none of which was answered. Lord Midlake, utterly confounded at finding himself the center of all this excitement, bit his lips vigorously and carried the seemingly lifeless damsel upstairs. Lady Ballard followed a little ways behind, and Daphne dared to follow her.
As Walter Midlake reached the upstairs corridor, wondering all the time how he was to open her bed-room door, should it prove to be closed, India’s eyelids began to flutter and she moaned faintly. “Miss Ballard?” said he, tentatively.
“What—where…O, Walter,” she said weakly, her green eyes opening fully to gaze into his.
“Yes, yes…Midlake, Walter Midlake,” he reminded her. “Can you walk?”
He would have set her down, but she clung to him. “No…my bed…please,” she murmured. Her fluttering lids closed again.
His Lordship, finding the door to her chamber ajar, obliged her. Her left hand grasped his shoulder loosely as he set her on the bed and slid easily down to his wrist. He was starting to go to the door again, to see where Lady Ballard could be, when her hand, miraculously reanimated, gripped his. “Don’t—go,” she whispered.
Helpless, he stood by the bed and watched as her eyes re-opened. A tremulous smile came to her lips and she said softly, “You are so kind to help me.”
“It is—er—nothing, really. Nothing at all.”
“O no,” she insisted. “You must have carried me…all the way from the garden. Was I terribly heavy?”
“No, not at all, Light, in fact.”
The smile became more certain of itself. “So sweet of you…to say so.”
Lord Midlake tugged at his ear with his free hand and turned towards the door-way. “Your mother—” he began.
“O yes, she will come soon to fuss over me, no doubt. But—Walter, will you think me mad if I tell you…I am almost glad it happened. Yes, glad. I had no idea how capable you were…so strong.” She cast one last adoring glance at his bewildered eyes and turned her head away from him on the pillow. “I must—rest now,” she murmured.
“Ah—indeed,” said he. At this juncture Lady Ballard swept in, a vinaigrette in one hand and her demi-train in the other. Lord Midlake’s relief at her arrival was exquisite, in spite of the fact that India still had not let go his hand, thus forcing him to stand by the bed holding it awkwardly.
“What ever occurred?” asked Lady Ballard in an urgent whisper as she held the vinaigrette to the freckled nose of her moaning daughter.
“Why, nothing. I don’t know. We were standing by the pool, and the next moment she fainted. I’ve no idea,” he repeated.
Lady Ballard fixed him with a distrustful look, distrust being an emotion which her cold features easily expressed. “You said nothing to shock her?” she asked.
“Nothing at all, I assure you. We were talking, I believe of—O dear, what was it? Of hedges! Yes, I think it was hedges.”
“Hedges indeed,” sniffed her Ladyship. “An interesting topic.”
“But we were, I assure you—” he began miserably.
“I wish you will stop assuring me and do something useful,” she returned. “Why do you hang about my daughter, upsetting her like this? She is very delicate; her sentiments cannot be toyed with!” Her low voice whispered harshly as she took India’s hand to rub it. “At one time, we thought you wished to secure her affections, and were courting her; then we heard nothing from you for months. Three week ago, at Dorothea Frane’s ball, you paid her the most particular attention…but a bare se’ennight later you refused an invitation to dine with us, and cut her in the Park. Now you are here again, and I am sure I do not know why.” India was beginning to recover: she turned her head on the pillow, though her eyes were still shut. “I am sorry to be forced to speak so frankly, sir,” Lady Ballard hissed, “but I cannot sit idly by while my daughter’s heart is played with. I really must beg you, my Lord, to inform us as to your intentions towards her, or to leave the Abbey at once.”
India stirred again. “Mamma?” she said.
“Yes, my dear, I am here,” said she, stroking her hand.
“Mamma, I am so shaken…”
“You see what I mean,” said Lady Ballard to Lord Midlake. “The poor girl is deeply troubled. I think you had better go now; we can resume this conversation
later, if necessary.”
Lord Midlake would have excused himself, but as soon as he opened his mouth he began to stutter, and could not stop. Instead, he pulled at both ears simultaneously and bowed, after which he quitted the room.
He met Daphne in the corridor, who asked him anxiously if he thought she might go in. He said nothing—since he could not—and she, taking his silence for an affirmative, entered the room he had just left. An astonishing conversation was taking place.
India was sitting up in bed, her colour entirely restored, looking in fact the picture of health. “It cannot have failed,” she was saying. “You were quite splendid!”
Lady Ballard shrugged off this praise, answering, “So long as it works; that is the important thing.”
“We ought to know soon enough, after the performance you—O Daphne,” she interrupted herself, “did you see what Mother has done? Was she not splendid?” She rose from the bed and began to straighten out her rumpled skirt.
“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Keyes. “I hope I am not intruding, but I was concerned…”
“Did you think—? O dear, it is too amusing! You see how well it was done, Mother; even Daphne did not know.”
“Did not know what?” Daphne persisted. “India, I thought you had fainted.”
“That is what you were meant to think, my dear silly girl. Or rather, it is what Lord Midlake was meant to think. I am sure he did—and after the tongue-lashing Mother just gave him—O, famous!”
“Then you were not ill at all?”
“No, of course not.” India sounded a trifle irritated. “The point was to put Lord Midlake into an awkward position—to get him to offer for me, you know. O, and I believe we have succeeded very well, better than I had dared to hope.”
Daphne was quite aghast, though she did her best not to show it. “Well, if you are not ill…then I suppose I ought to join the others. I am glad you are well, at least. What shall I tell them?”
“O, that I will keep to my bed for a few hours, though I seem some what better. That should answer, shouldn’t it ma’am?” she asked her mother.
“Yes, that will do very well. Poor Daphne must think our behaviour extraordinary, but you must try to understand how vexatious this business with Lord Midlake has been to us. We have had no question but that he meant to offer for India; it is only his wretched indecision which has kept him from it. This—little deception—will prove a help to him in the long run, I promise you.”
“O, Mother, Daphne is not the sort to moralise. She is not at all missish. You needn’t explain to her.”
Lady Ballard smiled condescendingly. “Nonetheless, I think I must go with her to inform the others of your state of health,” she said firmly. “I will have your dinner sent up to you, India. Don’t come down until nine, at the earliest. Now Daphne, come with me,” she added, taking her arm and leading her to the door. “India will be able to amuse herself until this evening.”
Daphne followed her obediently.
The party separated into little groups during the remainder of the afternoon: Daphne and Latimer wrote a long, joint letter to their parents; Lord Midlake retired with Sir Andrew into the latter’s study; Dorothea and Charles announced their intention to read in the library, but no one particularly believed them. Lady Ballard was contemplating having a carriage designed for her own use, and she requested her son’s assistance in this matter. At six-thirty every one went to dress for dinner, at which repast they met an hour later.
Conversation at the table was easy and gay, despite the concern of certain of the persons present for India’s health. Daphne had wished to discuss the perplexing deception which she had stumbled upon with Latimer, but she remembered Lady Bryde’s warning and kept silent. Charles Stickney had recently acquired a small property in Kent, where he and Dorothea planned to begin their life together, and this topic and related ones were much discussed. India joined the ladies after they had retired to the drawing-room, professing her health to be much improved and darting inquiring looks at her mother. These glances Lady Ballard returned with a slow nod and an exceedingly satisfied smile. India smiled too.
The gentlemen joined them in due course and Lady Ballard excused herself to complete the correspondence which she had meant to attend to that afternoon. Lord Midlake was looking positively green, but he suggested to Miss Ballard that she might like to take a turn on the terrace. Miss Ballard agreed. Sir Andrew proposed a game of billiards to Latimer, who accepted eagerly. Charles and Dorothea remained for a short while in the drawing-room, but then Miss Frane remembered some thing which she had left in the library, and said she must fetch it. Mr. Stickney offered to accompany her there, and the two of them disappeared.
All of which left Daphne alone with William.
She had been fearing this encounter greatly, and trying to avoid it, but none of the activities proposed by the others was the sort of scheme into which one could intrude oneself very conveniently. Her hopes that William might decide to join his father at billiards were soon dashed, and she had been forced to sit helplessly while two by two the company vanished. She attempted to rise now on a pretext, but William restrained her.
“Don’t go; I beg you will not,” he said.
“But I really ought—”
“It cannot be so important. I have been hoping to be alone with you since you arrived, but some how it has been impossible.”
“Why should you wish to be alone with me?” she asked, with unconvincing naïveté.
“Only to tell you how beautiful you are.”
“O dear,” said she, her alarm genuine.
“Yes, and to say how much I admire your charm, your vivacity, your quick, clever disposition—”
“O dear,” she said again.
“But you must listen!” he pleaded, as she turned away from him. They sat several feet apart on a settee of so dark a blue as to appear black. William reached for her hand, but she withdrew it and placed it in her lap with the other, folding and unfolding them nervously. “It is such exquisite relief to me to be allowed to vent my feelings thus,” William continued. “I must tell you…with what deep affection I regard you, how profoundly I care for you—”
“For Heaven’s sake!” she cried suddenly. “You do not know me!”
“But I do know you,” said he earnestly, moving closer to her and reaching again for her hand. She snatched it away. “I do know you. I know your whims, your tastes; I have made a study of them, India has told me everything. Your favourite colour is blue; you are partial to raspberries; you prefer poetry to prose—O, and you are so utterly adorable!” he broke off, kneeling (to her absolute horror) before her. “Say you will be my wife, I beg it. Say you return my regard!”
“I do—I do not…I hardly know what…O for the love of Heaven Itself, will you get up off your knees?” she exclaimed at last. “How is any one to think with some one grovelling before her?”
William was annoyed at her mistaking his supplicating posture for “grovelling,” but he stood up and sat down again beside her and did not allow himself to be swayed from his purpose. “Say at least that I hold a place in your sentiments; say at least that!”
“Well, that is easy to say,” she replied, thinking how perfectly preoccupied her emotions now were with trying not to injure his pride.
“Ah, that is some thing!” he cried, attaining her hand at last.
“But no, it is nothing,” she contradicted. “O dear, I wish you will not press your suit on me thus—”
“I spoke too soon,” he interrupted. “I was afraid I might; forgive me, I pray. Say you do not entirely despise me.”
“No of course I do not. I do not entirely despise any—”
“But say you will allow me to address you again,” he broke in once more. “Say that!”
“But this is ridiculous!”
“O, not ridiculous; do not call it so, I implore you. My dear Miss Keyes—” he began again to sink to his knees, but remembered she did not care fo
r that in time to stop himself “—these decisions are too significant to be made in a single night. Say you will think of it; say I may ask you again; say you will consider it, please.”
Daphne’s face was suffused with colour. She felt very foolish, not a little confused, and extremely embarrassed for him as well as for herself. “I—O dear,” she faltered finally, “I will.” She was sorry as soon as she said it.
“You have made me very happy,” said he, in reverent tones. “From now until we speak alone again, I live only for my hopes, my prayers, my dreams.”
“Dreams indeed,” she murmured grimly. Happily, he did not hear her, being in the act of showering kisses upon her hand. When at last he had done with that, he stood up, and she was allowed to go.
At supper, India announced her betrothal to Lord Mid-lake. Her pale cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his sallow ones with mortification at all the attention being paid them. They were felicitated and toasted roundly, especially by Dorothea Frane, who came forward shyly to hope “they would be as happy as she and Charles were.” Daphne found her feelings profoundly divided. On the one hand, she was glad to know that India had achieved her professed aim; on the other, she doubted very much whether Miss Ballard really wanted what she thought she did. In any case, there was no question of Daphne’s doing any thing about it, so she assumed a wide smile and wished them very happy. Certainly, she did wish that.
There was a good deal of wine drunk, and several speeches were made in a jubilant vein. Latimer got quite bosky—in earnest, this time—as did William Ballard. When the company had grown tired of toasting India and Walter, they began to toast Charles and Dorothea; and when they had grown weary of that, young William apparently could not bear to see the festive spirit fade. For this reason, as well as because he was slightly intoxicated, he stood up at his place at the supper-table and made what was for Daphne a most embarrassing, even shocking, announcement.
“My dear friends, my dear family,” called he, tapping a glass with his coffee-spoon to attract their attention, “it is my very, very deep pleasure to add to this celebration a hint of future happiness. Miss Daphne Keyes has this evening promised—not to marry me—but to think of it.” He cast an excited glance at Daphne’s crimson face. “I know you will join me in my hopes that she will answer, when she answers, in the affirmative.” With that he sat down, amid polite applause. His announcement was not nearly so well received as the earlier one; in fact, Sir Andrew felt his move was impolitic, and Lady Ballard would dearly have loved to box his ears. India, too, was more surprised than delighted to hear this unexpected news of her friend, but no one knew how to unsay William’s words, so they did the next best thing, which was to ignore them as much as possible.
