The Autumn Rose
Page 4
“There is no one in my life, so far as I recall, whose acquaintance I feel the need to deny,” said I, “and yet I do not remember you, sir.”
“Look at me again,” he suggested, and (though I detest this sort of parlour-game—except in parlours, I mean) I obliged him. Let me tell you what I saw, and then you (for you know him too!) may decide if you blame me for forgetting him. He is about eight-and-twenty years of age; his complexion sallow and his hair jet black. His eyes, too, are black, and glint peculiarly. They are set rather strangely beneath his dark brows, which is, I think, what makes him resemble a wolf. He is half a head taller than I, narrow-shouldered, cleanshaven, and fastidious. His voice, though deep, has an odd edge to it, an edge which sometimes whines, sometimes accuses. Can you see him in your mind yet? The last details are these: a long nose broken just below the bridge; thin, pale lips—and yet for all this, he is not ugly! Indeed, if one admires savage things (and not a few do, now-a-days) he is rather well-looking.
Well, I am doing what a moment ago I said I loathed: forcing you to divine what I may just as easily tell you at once—though you have the luxury of looking ahead in the letter, or I should have stopped ere this. In any case, if you did not guess, I will be comforted, for I certainly did not. The man’s name is Armand Mockabee—Baron Mockabee, since several years ago—and when you were twelve, and I fourteen, we used to hide by the road expressly for the purpose of watching him go by. Not only that, but I have some memory of leaving billets-doux for him where we thought he might find them, and signing them “Incognita.” Are you blushing? I would stake my life on it you are. Yes, my dear, I have found the object of our first, mutual love-fit. All would be well enough if we had had more discretion, but if you remember correctly, you will recall that I cast caution to the winds one day and stepped forward in person to declare my ardent admiration of him. Now, I had forgot him entirely within months (for you know he laughed in my face at my confession) and, very sensibly, chose to continue to suppress the memory; but Baron Mockabee, alas, did not. When he finally told me his name on Saturday night, all of the above rushed back to me, as he could easily perceive by my sudden colour.
“I am relieved to see you do know me after all,” said he, smiling not altogether pleasantly. “I trust you are as well as you look. How is Inlowe?”
I told him Humphrey went on very well, and then he asked after you. This brought the flush to my cheeks again, and finally I declared, “You may imagine my embarrassment before you sir; I hope you will be so kind as to forget the follies of youth. I am no longer half so sentimental as I once was, I assure you.”
“Forget? That I should be loth to do,” he replied, while Lady Beatrice listened in surprise. “Indeed the episode to which you refer was one of the most flattering of my life; I only regret I was too callow to turn it to good advantage.”
“Nevertheless, you did well not to,” said I, a little primly.
“I collect, then, that your feelings have changed?”
“You may be certain of it. But how come you to be in London?” I inquired, to turn the topic. “Have you been here long?”
“Oh, I am hardly ever in Berkshire,” said he carelessly, while I wondered how his tenants withstood such neglect. “London is the only place that is gay enough for me. How do you enjoy it here?”
At this point Lady Beatrice interrupted, to beg an introduction to Mockabee. “Then you are not acquainted with Lady Beatrice?” said I to him, after obliging her. Methought at once he had come without an invitation, for I cannot tell you how unsavoury an air he has developed.
“No, it was your brother Romby who invited me,” said he to her, laughing. I am convinced he knew my suspicions instantly, and that was the cause of his laugh, for there is something very sharp about him that suggests he knows more than he says.
“Are you a member of Brooks’s, then?” Lady Beatrice hazarded.
The baron said that he was. “I have lost many a pound to his lordship, too,” he added, showing his teeth.
“Well, this is quite a surprise to me,” said I, as an uncomfortable silence ensued. “Imagine meeting you in town, after missing you so consistently where we are neighbours.”
“To be candid, I must admit it is not a surprise to me,” said Mockabee. “I had the honour of driving your carriage part of the way to London.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I say, I took the reins from your coachman during the last stage; do you not recall it?”
“Very plainly,” said I, warning myself against a rash response.
“How the Reverend Roundbelly did squeal!” he exclaimed gleefully, recounting the incident to Lady Beatrice, and concluding proudly, “I took ten minutes off the coachman’s regular time, you know; so you have had ten minutes more pleasure here, Lady Caroline, and all thanks to me.”
I decided it was only fair to give him the opportunity of apologizing before I flew at him in a violent rage. “Dear Baron,” I said, governing myself extraordinarily well, “I am afraid you caused more mischief than you know. I was uncomfortable, it is true, but that is hardly a disaster; my chaperone, however, was frightened half out of her wits. That is not even to mention the elderly lady who also travelled with us, nor how it feels to have a very large gentleman (clerical or not) thrown suddenly into one’s lap.”
But he still stood before me, shameless. “Heyday,” cried he, “I begin to believe you do not care for a joke, my lady.”
“Not for that joke, I did not. To put it bluntly, I feel it is unconscionable to play such a trick on an unoffending party. I am aware many young gentlemen amuse themselves in this way, but I have no opinion of it.”
By now he had discovered I was in earnest, but instead of apologizing he grew surly. “It was all sport,” he muttered.
“For you perhaps, but not for the passengers.”
This conversation had gone on for so long, and I was so much the centre of attention (merely from the fact of its being my come-out), that the persons round us began to stare. “Your ladyship has led too sheltered a life; there is nothing objectionable in so mild a prank as this one.”
“I object to it,” said I, standing my ground admirably, as you will agree. “I rather expected an apology by now, than an argument, sir; but I see I judged you wrongly.” At this point Lady Beatrice became somewhat alarmed by our vehemence, and whispered to me, that eccentricity was one thing, but unruliness quite another. When I ignored her—for I was too angry to listen—she beckoned to Seabury, who stood some little distance away from us with Lady Susan Manning. He came at once, and greeted Mockabee a trifle coolly, as it seemed to me.
I must say for Seabury that he took in the situation very quickly. “There is nothing amiss here, I hope?” he asked, giving Mockabee a stern glance that seemed to say, “My hope had better be answered.”
“Baron Mockabee and I have had a disagreement,” I told him.
“No question of an insult, I trust?” Seabury pursued. I realized then what he was getting at: he wished to discover whether he ought to call the baron out. The habit of fighting my own battles being deeply engrained in my character, I immediately said there was not. Lord Seabury then led me away to the supper-room and gave me a glass of orgeat (which I did not want), this being the simplest way to curtail the altercation. He did not inquire of me what the dispute concerned, even when we were safely away from the others. Doubtless he considers his discretion very fine and noble; I think it tedious, mais chacun à son goût. Lady Susan by the way, who had no means of knowing why she had been so suddenly deserted, looked at me very cross when we regained the ball-room.
An enemy was hardly what I hoped to acquire in London, but it seems I have done so, nolens volens. I have not yet hit upon a suitable means to settle with the baron, but I am gnawing and fretting at the question all the time, like a dog at his bone, and hope to have a really vengeful scheme invented before the week is out. It will interest you to know, by the bye, that Mockabee did not in the least have
the grace to depart after this scene; on the contrary, I saw him dancing with Amy Meredith at two in the morning, by which hour nearly half the other guests had gone home. He avoided my glance, so I suppose he has a nodding acquaintance with shame.
We have received a perfect avalanche of invitations, cards, and visits since the come-out. Tonight I am to dine at Lady Mufftow’s, and tomorrow night I shall attend my first opera. How gay it is! I am quite accustomed to the noise from the adjoining streets by now, and even the taste of the water here has become familiar, if not pleasant. But I do miss you dreadfully, along with everybody else at home. I hope you will convey my compliments to Edgar. Sometimes I get terribly moped just thinking of my nieces. Did you kiss them at all? Theresa will always take a kiss you know, even if Delphina will not. It was so sweet of you to visit Two Towers to look in on Jeannie. My abigail here is named Mary; she is tolerably clever, but nothing so dear as Jean. I do not complain of Mary, you understand, but I wish I had a confidante with me.
I forgot to tell you the best of all (according to Lady Beatrice, at least): Lady Sefton was at my come-out, and she has judged both Amy and me acceptable to be allowed subscriptions to Almack’s! What? Not overjoyed? Well my dear, I can only say that it shows a pretty frivolous attitude towards life, not to feel ecstatic when such a privilege is accorded your dearest friend.
Seriously though, it is a great thing to be admitted to Almack’s, and may prove very convenient if I ever need to commit suicide, and desire to die of boredom. At least that is what every sensible person I have met tells me of Almack’s; Lady Beatrice herself, indeed, confesses it is not the thing itself, but the idea of it, which is so precious.
You asked in your last letter what eccentricities I was to acquire for the benefit of the ton. As it happens, Lady Beatrice and I had a most comfortable cose on that subject on Friday evening, and here is what we resolved: first, that I shall always wear rose, deeper or paler as I please. Next, that I shall develop my own mixture of snuff, carry it, and take it (oh horrible!). Third, that I shall ride every day in the Green Park, in spite of its being less frequented than Hyde Park, with a Newfoundland dog trotting after me. Fourth, that I shall profess not to wish to marry. Fifth, that I shall cultivate spirit and magnificence, while every other damsel in London strives to look languid and interesting. Sixth, that I shall be frank, blunt, or even rude, before I shall be missish. And last, I must somehow contrive to intimate that beneath all this self-assurance and forthrightness there hides a heart easily wounded, pure, loyal and fierce in its affections. Such a scheme leaves little time for ennui!
Of course those are only the seven chief points. There are lesser ones, and small refinements, that develop every day, such as that I shall carry a walking-stick like a man, and sprinkle my conversation with the less vulgar kinds of cant. The aim, to be candid, is to make me look as far from innocent as possible, yet without permitting anything that might cast a doubt upon my virtue. At least that is what I divine the aim to be; almost every idea is Lady Beatrice’s, so I can only guess. Have you any suggestions? We are at a non-plus.
The pen is fairly dropping from my hand, but I must paint one more scene. All night long at my come-out, Miss Windle made sheeps-eyes at Lord Romby. By some means upon which I shall not speculate, she managed to sit next to him at the supper table. He had brought in Lady Crowsley, who is an ancient acquaintance of his, but Windle did not give him a minute in which to address her. She kept up, instead, a ceaseless flow of remarks (completely neglecting her own supper-partner, naturally) directed to him, and seemed not the least bit daunted at his saying nothing but yes and no in reply. À propos of Romby, he and I get on better and better with one another, and have now formed an alliance which I hope will someday be strong enough to overthrow that self-appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer, Seabury. And not so à propos, this same Seabury’s hand on my waist felt like heaven when we danced. I begin to agree with Lady Beatrice: what a pity if he marries that Susan!
Adio my love; I must fly.
Ever most affectionately yours,
C. W.
“But my dear sir, I am expected to conduct myself strangely!” Lady Caroline protested to Romby while they waited for the remainder of their party to finish dressing. More than a week had passed since the letter recorded above had been written, during which time Caroline had not ceased (during every free moment) to search out a scheme whereby her revenge upon Baron Mockabee might be effected. Her days had been so much taken up by visits and calls—not a few of them from Mockabee himself—and her nights so much absorbed in the pleasant whirl of the season, though, that she had had but little time to think.
Nevertheless, she had finally devised a satisfactory scheme. Unfortunately, it required the active cooperation of Lord Romby. She continued after a pause, “Indeed, I am directed to conduct myself strangely; so la! for your scruples.”
“Still, I do not like it,” growled the old earl. “If Lord Seabury found out it would be the end of me, so do not think of it further.”
“What a stubborn old man you are!” cried Caro, exasperated. “How could it be the end of you? What a remark! Do you mean Seabury would murder you? Send you away? Have you imprisoned?”
“No, naturally not, my fine little hoyden. But he would be mighty angry; and when he is wrathful, he is most unpleasant.”
“Do you allow him to control you so closely, man? He has you under his thumb, and merely because he lets you roar and bellow, you think you have the upper hand! Come, sir, this will never answer.”
“But he would be right, Mistress Spitfire. Deep play with a set of reckless gamesters is nothing for you to be mixed up with. It is out of the question, so forget it.”
“My lord, pray consider it a while longer,” Caroline said more calmly. Her large green eyes, which had been flashing, became milder as they gazed at the elderly gentleman. “Both you and I might benefit from the game—and there need only be one!—and if Seabury does not gain too, at least he loses nothing either. For my sake, will you think of it?”
The door to the drawing-room in which they waited opened as Romby grumbled out a yes, and they were ensconced in Seabury’s box at the Opera half an hour later. Romby, who would much rather have gone to Brooks’s, sat at the back and coughed and mumbled through the whole of the first act. Caroline found herself flanked by Miss Windle on her right and Miss Meredith on her left. Lady Beatrice had declined to join the party, remarking that she had seen Don Giovanni too many times to go when nobody in particular was singing, but Caro had a suspicion that the marchioness was feeling her age more than usually of late, and had preferred for that reason to rest at home. Lord Seabury was on Amy’s other side, and Mrs. Henry sat behind him. As the opera began, Lady Caro was sorry to discover that she could see but two thirds of the stage; later she learned that one had one’s choice between the side boxes, where the view was obstructed, and the front ones, which were too far from the stage to hear the singing properly. Unhappily, she found it difficult to profit even by the acoustic advantage she ought to have enjoyed, for Miss Meredith—notwithstanding it was the first time either of them had been to the Opera—talked to her continually. “Who is that, I wonder?” she would whisper into Caro’s ear.
“Why, it is Leporello, Don Giovanni’s servant.”
“No, no, my dear. Not on the stage; that man in the box across from us, behind the lady with the ostrich plumes.” She pointed with her fan. “I wonder who is her plumassier; are they not lovely feathers?”
Caro did not answer, but Amy went on undisturbed: “See the gentleman in that box…that one…one two three four five boxes from the farthest on the left? Not the one with the curls, the other one. Is he not handsome? He has been quizzing us these past five minutes; do you think he is looking at me or at you? I suppose he might even be looking at Henry or Windle, but it seems most improbable.”
“Most.”
“Is he not handsome?” repeated Miss Meredith.
“Quite.”
“Yes.”
“Lord Seabury is very attentive to the stage. Look, he is nearly frowning, he is so intent upon the action. I should have thought by his age he would have seen Don Giovanni a thousand times or more. Should not you?”
“Quite.”
“I like Lord Seabury very much, but he is most disagreeably stern. Also, I think he is too old. Did you know he is full thirty-three?”
“Yes.”
“I met him several times when he was younger, you know, but he was just as stern even then. I like Lady Beatrice better, but I am afraid she thinks I am too giddy.”
“Quite.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You have not been listening to me at all, have you?” cried Miss Meredith, stung.
“Most,” said Caro. “Exactly. Indeed.”
Miss Meredith fell silent till the first interval. Romby disappeared directly as the curtain fell, and a short time afterwards Mr. Ansel Walfish visited them and took the old man’s chair. “If you will excuse me, I ought to call upon a few of our neighbours,” Lord Seabury said, as soon as the other gentleman had arrived. The ladies gave his lordship leave to go where he would (though he would go to Lady Susan Manning’s box, Caroline noted with something like dissatisfaction), expressing their conviction that Mr. Walfish would look after them in his absence, and then fell into easy conversation with that modish young man on the subject of the Opera, and the evening, and the woman with the splendid plumes.
“She is not a lady of whom you ought to take note,” Walfish told Miss Meredith, looking a little uncomfortable.
“But how can one avoid it when she is so very lovely?” Amy smiled. “Who is she?”
“I do not know her name.”
“I think you are teasing me, Mr. Walfish,” declared Amy. “Now pray tell me, what can she have done to deserve your pretending not to know her name?”