Nuttie's Father
by Charlotte M. Yonge · English · Gutenberg #4053 · 673,035 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Nuttie's Father
Author: Charlotte M. Yonge
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4053]
Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4053
Credits: Produced by Sandra Laythorpe. HTML version by Al Haines.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NUTTIE'S FATHER ***
Produced by Sandra Laythorpe. HTML version by Al Haines.
Nuttie's Father
by
Charlotte M. Yonge
CONTENTS
I. ST. AMBROSE'S CHOIR.
II. MONKS HORTON.
III. HEIR HUNTING.
IV. A NAME.
V. SUSPENSE.
VI. THE WATER-SOLDIER.
VII. THAT MAN.
VIII. THE FATHER.
IX. NEW PLUMES.
X. BRIDGEFIELD EGREMONT.
XI. LAWN-TENNIS.
XII. OUT OF WORK.
XIII. DETRIMENTALS.
XIV. GOING AGEE.
XV. A CASTLE OF UMBRELLAS.
XVI. INFRA DIG.
XVII. AN OLD FRIEND.
XVIII. A FRIEND IN NEED.
XIX. THE VORTEX.
XX. WOLF.
XXI. URSULA'S RECEPTION.
XXII. DISENCHANTMENT.
XXIII. A FAILURE.
XXIV. FARMS OR UMBRELLAS.
XXV. THE GIGGLING SCOTCH GIRL.
XXVI. THREE YEARS LATER.
XXVII. THE BOY OF EGREMONT.
XXVIII. A BRAVE HEART.
XXIX. A FRESH START.
XXX. NUTTIE'S PROSPECTS.
XXXI. SPES NON FRACTA.
XXXII. BLACKS IN THE ASCENDANT.
XXXIII. THE LOST HEIR.
XXXIV. FETTERS RENT.
XXXV. THE HULL OF THE URSULA.
XXXVI. NUTTIE'S KNIGHT.
XXXVII. FOUND AND TAKEN.
XXXVIII. THE UMBRELLA MAN.
XXXIX. ANNAPLE'S AMBITION FALLEN.
CHAPTER I.
ST. AMBROSE'S CHOIR.
'For be it known
That their saint's honour is their own.'--SCOTT.
The town of Micklethwayte was rising and thriving. There were
salubrious springs which an enterprising doctor had lately brought into
notice. The firm of Greenleaf and Dutton manufactured umbrellas in
large quantities, from the stout weather-proof family roof down to the
daintiest fringed toy of a parasol. There were a Guild Hall and a
handsome Corn Market. There was a Modern School for the boys, and a
High School for the girls, and a School of Art, and a School of
Cookery, and National Schools, and a British School, and a Board
School, also churches of every height, chapels of every denomination,
and iron mission rooms budding out in hopes to be replaced by churches.
Like one of the animals which zoologists call radiated, the town was
constantly stretching out fresh arms along country roads, all living
and working, and gradually absorbing the open spaces between. One of
these arms was known as St. Ambrose's Road, in right of the church, an
incomplete structure in yellow brick, consisting of a handsome chancel,
the stump of a tower, and one aisle just weather-tight and usable, but,
by its very aspect, begging for the completion of the beautiful design
that was suspended above the alms-box.
It was the evening of a summer day which had been very hot. The choir
practice was just over, and the boys came out trooping and chattering;
very small ones they were; for as soon as they began to sing tolerably
they were sure to try to get into the choir of the old church, which
had a foundation that fed, clothed, taught, and finally apprenticed
them. So, though the little fellows were clad in surplices and
cassocks, and sat in the chancel for correctness sake, there was a
space round the harmonium reserved for the more trustworthy band of
girls and young women who came forth next, followed by four or five
mechanics.
Behind came the nucleus of the choir--a slim, fair-haired youth of
twenty; a neat, precise, well-trimmed man, closely shaven, with
stooping shoulders, at least fifteen years older, with a black poodle
at his heels, as well shorn as his master, newly risen from lying
outside the church door; a gentle, somewhat drooping lady in black, not
yet middle-aged and very pretty; a small eager, unformed, black-eyed
girl, who could hardly keep back her words for the outside of the
church door; a tall self-possessed handsome woman, with a fine
classical cast of features; and lastly, a brown-faced, wiry hardworking
clergyman, without an atom of superfluous flesh, but with an air of
great energy.
'Oh! vicar, where are we to go?' was the question so eager to break
forth.
'Not to the Crystal Palace, Nuttie. The funds won't bear it. Mr.
Dutton says we must spend as little as possible on locomotion.'
'I'm sure I don't care for the Crystal Palace. A trumpery tinsel
place, all shams.'
'Hush, hush, my dear, not so loud,' said the quiet lady; but Nuttie
only wriggled her shoulders, though her voice was a trifle lowered. 'If
it were the British Museum now, or Westminster Abbey.'
'Or the Alps,' chimed in a quieter voice, 'or the Ufizzi.'
'Now, Mr. Dutton, that's not what I want. Our people aren't ready for
that, but what they have let it be real. Miss Mary, don't you see what
I mean?'
'Rather better than Miss Egremont herself,' said Mr. Dutton.
'Well,' said the vicar, interposing in the wordy war, 'Mrs. Greenleaf's
children have scarlatina, so we can't go to Horton Bishop. The choice
seems to be between South Beach and Monks Horton.'
'That's no harm,' cried Nuttie; 'Mrs. Greenleaf is so patronising!'
'And both that and South Beach are so stale,' said the youth.
'As if the dear sea could ever be stale,' cried the young girl.
'I thought Monks Horton was forbidden ground,' said Miss Mary.
'So it was with the last regime', said the vicar; 'but now the new
people are come I expect great things from them. I hear they are very
friendly.'
'I expect nothing from them,' said Nuttie so sententiously that all her
hearers laughed and asked 'her exquisite reason,' as Mr. Dutton put it.
'Lady Kirkaldy and a whole lot of them came into the School of Art.'
'And didn't appreciate "Head of Antinous by Miss Ursula Egremont,"' was
the cry that interrupted her, but she went on with dignity
unruffled--'Anything so foolish and inane as their whole talk and all
their observations I never heard. "I don't like this style," one of
them said. "Such ugly useless things! I never see anything pretty and
neatly finished such as we used to do."' The girl gave it in a tone of
mimicry of the nonchalant voice, adding, with fresh imitation, "'And
another did not approve of drawing from the life--models might be such
strange people."'
'My ears were not equally open to their profanities,' said Miss Mary.
'I confess that I was struck by the good breeding and courtesy of the
leader of the party, who, I think, was Lady Kirkaldy herself.'
'I saw! I thought she was patronising you, and my blood boiled!' cried
Nuttie.
'Will boiling blood endure a picnic in the park of so much ignorance,
folly, and patronage?' asked Mr. Dutton.
'Oh, indeed, Mr. Dutton, Nuttie never said that,' exclaimed gentle Mrs.
Egremont.
'Whether it is fully worth the doing is the question,' said the vicar.
'Grass and shade do not despise,' said Miss Mary.
'There surely must be some ecclesiastical remains,' said the young man.
'And there is a river,' added the vicar.
'I shall get a stickleback for my aquarium,' cried Nuttie. 'We shall
make some discoveries for the Scientific Society. I shall note down
every individual creature I see! I say! you are sure it is not a sham
waterfall or Temple of Tivoli?'
'It would please the choir boys and G. F. S. girls quite as much, if
not more, in that case,' said Miss Mary; 'but you need not expect that,
Nuttie. Landscape-gardening is gone by.'
'Even with the county people?' said Nuttie.
'By at least half a century,' said Mr. Dutton, 'with all deference to
this young lady's experience.'
'It was out of their own mouths,' cried the girl defiantly. 'That's
all I know about county people, and so I hope it will be.'
'Come in, my dear, you are talking very fast,' interposed Mrs.
Egremont, with some pain in the soft sweet voice, which, if it had been
a little stronger, would have been the best in the choir.
These houses in St. Ambrose's Road were semi-detached. The pair which
the party had reached had their entrances at the angles, with a narrow
gravel path leading by a tiny grass plat to each. One, which was
covered with a rich pall of purple clematis, was the home of Mrs.
Egremont, her aunt, and Nuttie; the other, adorned with a Gloire de
Dijon rose in second bloom, was the abode of Mary Nugent, with her
mother, the widow of a naval captain. Farther on, with adjoining
gardens, was another couple of houses, in one of which lived Mr.
Dutton; in the other lodged the youth, Gerard Godfrey, together with
the partner of the principal medical man. The opposite neighbours were
a master of the Modern School and a scholar. Indeed, the saying of the
vicar, the Rev. Francis Spyers, was, and St. Ambrose's Road was proud
of it, that it was a professional place. Every one had something to do
either with schools or umbrellas, scarcely excepting the doctor and the
solicitor, for the former attended the pupils and the latter supplied
them. Mr. Dutton was a partner in the umbrella factory, and lived, as
the younger folk said, as the old bachelor of the Road. Had he not a
housekeeper, a poodle, and a cat; and was not his house, with lovely
sill boxes full of flowers in the windows, the neatest of the neat; and
did not the tiny conservatory over his dining-room window always
produce the flowers most needed for the altar vases, and likewise
bouquets for the tables of favoured ladies. Why, the very daisies never
durst lift their heads on his little lawn, which even bore a French
looking-glass globe in the centre. Miss Nugent, or Miss Mary as every
one still called her, as her elder sister's marriage was recent, was
assistant teacher at the School of Art, and gave private drawing
lessons, so as to supplement the pension on which her mother lived.
They also received girls as boarders attending the High School.
So did Miss Headworth, who had all her life been one of those people
who seem condemned to toil to make up for the errors or disasters of
others. First she helped to educate a brother, and soon he had died to
leave an orphan daughter to be bred up at her cost. The girl had
married from her first situation; but had almost immediately lost her
husband at sea, and on this her aunt had settled at Micklethwayte to
make a home for her and her child, at first taking pupils, but when the
High School was set up, changing these into boarders; while Mrs.
Egremont went as daily governess to the children of a family of
somewhat higher pretensions. Little Ursula, or Nuttie, as she was
called, according to the local contraction, was like the child of all
the party, and after climbing up through the High School to the last
form, hoped, after passing the Cambridge examination, to become a
teacher there in another year.
CHAPTER II.
MONKS HORTON.
'And we will all the pleasures prove,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.'--Old Ballad.
It was holiday-time, and liberties were taken such as were not
permissible, when they might have afforded a bad precedent to the
boarders. Therefore, when two afternoons later Mary Nugent, returning
from district visiting, came out into her garden behind the house, she
was not scandalised to see a pair of little black feet under a holland
skirt resting on a laurel branch, and going a few steps more she beheld
a big shady hat, and a pair of little hands busy with a pencil and a
blank book; as Ursula sat on the low wall between the gardens, shaded
by the laburnum which facilitated the ascent on her own side.
'Oh Miss Mary! Delicious! Come up here! You don't know how charming
this is.'
She moved aside so as to leave the ascent--by an inverted flower-pot
and a laurel branch--open to her friend, thus knocking down one of the
pile of books which she had taken to the top of the wall. Miss Nugent
picked it up, 'Marie Stuart! Is this your way of studying her?'
'Now, you know 'tis holiday time, and volunteer work; besides, she was
waiting for you, and I could not help doing this.' She held out a
hand, which was scarcely needed, and Mary sprang lightly to share her
perch upon the wall. 'Look here!'
'Am I to guess the subject as in the game of historic outlines,' said
Miss Nugent, as the book was laid on her lap. 'It looks like a
modern--no, a mediaeval--edition of Marcus Curtius about to leap into
the capital opening for a young man, only with his dogs instead of his
horse. That hound seems very rationally to object.'
'Now don't! Guess in earnest.'
'A compliment to your name. The Boy of Egremont, poor fellow, just
about to bound across the strid.'
'Exactly! I always feel sure that my father must have done something
like this.'
'Was it so heroic?' said Miss Mary. 'You know it was for the hundredth
time, and he had no reason to expect any special danger.'
'Oh, but his mother was waiting, and he had to go. Now, I'll tell you
how it must have been with my father. You know he sailed away in a
yacht before I was born, and poor mother never saw him again; but I
know what happened. There was a ship on fire like the Birkenhead, and
the little yacht went near to pick up the people, and my father called
out, like Sir Humphrey Gilbert--
"Do not fear, Heaven is as near
By water as by land."
And the little yacht was so close when the great ship blew up that it
got sucked down in the whirlpool, and rescuers and all died a noble
death together!'
'Has your mother been telling you?' asked Miss Mary.
'Oh no! she never mentions him. She does not know. No one does; but I
am quite sure he died nobly, with no one to tell the tale, only the
angels to look on, and that makes it all the finer. Or just suppose he
was on a desert island all the time, and came back again to find us! I
sometimes think he is.'
'What? When you are _quite sure_ of the other theory?'
'I mean I am quite sure while I am thinking about it, or reading
Robinson Crusoe, or the Swiss Family.'
'Oh!'
'Miss Mary, has no one ever told you anything about my father?'
'No one.'
'They never tell me. Mother cries, and aunt Ursula puts on her
"there's-an-end-of-it look." Do you think there is anything they are
waiting to tell me till I am older?'
'If there were, I am sure you had better not try to find it out
beforehand.'
'You don't think I would do anything of _that sort?_ But I thought you
might know. Do you remember their first settling here?'
'Scarcely. I was a very small child then.'
Miss Nugent had a few vague recollections which she did not think it
expedient to mention. A dim remembrance rose before her of mysterious
whisperings about that beautiful young widow, and that it had been said
that the rector of the Old Church had declared himself to know the
ladies well, and had heartily recommended them. She thought it wiser
only to speak of having been one of their first scholars, telling of
the awe Miss Headworth inspired; but the pleasure it was to bring a
lesson to pretty Mrs. Egremont, who always rewarded a good one with a
kiss, 'and she was so nice to kiss--yes, and is.'
'Aunt Ursel and mother both were governesses,' continued the girl, 'and
yet they don't want me to go out. They had rather I was a teacher at
the High School.'
'They don't want to trust their Little Bear out in the world.'
'I think it is more than that,' said the girl. 'I can't help thinking
that he--my father--must have been some one rather grand, with such a
beautiful name as Alwyn Piercefield Egremont. Yes; I know it was that,
for I saw my baptismal certificate when I stood for the scholarship; it
was Dieppe,--Ursula Alice, daughter of Alwyn Piercefield and Alice
Elizabeth Egremont, May 15, 1860. James Everett--I think he was the
chaplain at Dieppe.'
Mary Nugent thought it the wisest way to laugh and say: 'You, of all
people in the world, to want to make out a connection with the
aristocracy!'
'True love is different,' said Ursula. 'He must have been cast off by
his family for her sake, and have chosen poverty--
"To make the croon a pund, my Alwyn gaed to sea,
And the croon and the pund, they were baith for me."'
Miss Mary did not think a yacht a likely place for the conversion of a
croon into a pound, and the utter silence of mother and aunt did not
seem to her satisfactory; but she feared either to damp the youthful
enthusiasm for the lost father, or to foster curiosity that might lead
to some painful discovery, so she took refuge in an inarticulate sound.
'I think Mr. Dutton knows,' proceeded Nuttie.
'You don't mean to ask him?'
'Catch me! I know how he would look at me.'
'Slang! A forfeit!'
'Oh, it's holiday time, and the boarders can't hear. There's Mr.
Dutton's door!'
This might in one way be a relief to Miss Nugent, but she did not like
being caught upon the wall, and therefore made a rapid descent, though
not without a moment's entanglement of skirt, which delayed her long
enough to show where she had been, as Mr. Dutton was at the same moment
advancing to his own wall on the opposite side of the Nugent garden.
Perhaps he would have pretended to see nothing but for Nuttie's cry of
glee.
'You wicked elf,' said Miss Mary, 'to inveigle people into
predicaments, and then go shouting ho! ho! ho! like Robin Goodfellow
himself.'
'You should have kept your elevation and dignity like me,' retorted
Ursula; 'and then you would have had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Dutton
climbing his wall and coming to our feet.'
'Mischievous elves deserve no good news,' said Mr. Dutton, who was by
no means so venerable that the crossing the wall was any effort or
compromise of dignity, and who had by this time joined Mary on her
grass plat.
'Oh, what is it! Are we to go to Monks Horton?' cried Nuttie.
'Here is a gracious permission from Lord Kirkaldy, the only
stipulations being that no vestiges of the meal, such as sandwich
papers or gooseberry skins, be left on the grass; and that nobody does
any mischief,' he added in an awful tone of personality. 'So if I see
anybody rooting up holly trees I shall be bound to interfere.'
'Now, Mr. Dutton, it was only a baby holly in a chink.'
'Only a holly tree! Just like the giant's daughter when she only
carried off waggon, peasant, oxen, and all in her pinafore.'
'It is not longer than my finger now!'
'Well, remember, mischief either wanton or scientific is forbidden. You
are to set an example to the choir-boys.'
'Scientific mischief is a fatal thing to rare plants,' said Mary.
'If I'm not to touch anything, I may as well stay at home,' pouted
Nuttie.
'You may gather as many buttercups and daisies as the sweet child
pleases,' said Mr. Dutton; whereupon she threatened to throw her books
at his head.
Miss Nugent asked how they were to go, and Mr. Dutton explained that
there was only a quarter of a mile's walk from the station; that return
tickets would be furnished at a tariff of fourpence a head; and that
there would be trains at 1.15 and 7.30.
'How hungry the children will be.'
'They will eat all the way. That's the worst of this sort of outing.
They eat to live and live to eat.'
'At least they don't eat at church,' said Nuttie.
'Not since the peppermint day, when Mr. Spyers suspended Dickie Drake,'
put in Mary.
And the Spa Terrace Church people said it was incense.'
'No. Nuttie!'
'Indeed they did. Louisa Barnet attacked us about it at school, and I
said I wished it had been. Only they mustn't eat peppermint in the
train, for it makes mother quite ill.'
'Do you mean that Mrs. Egremont will come?' exclaimed Mr. Dutton.
'Oh yes, she shall. It is not too far, and it will be very good for
her. I shall make her.'
'There's young England's filial duty!' said Mary.
'Why, I know what is good for her, and she always does as "I wish."'
'Beneficent despotism!' said Mr. Dutton. 'May I ask if Miss Headworth
is an equally obedient subject.'
'Oh! Aunt Ursel is very seldom tiresome.'
'Nuttie! Nuttie! my dear,' and a head with the snows of more than half
a century appeared on the other side of the wall, under a cap and
parasol. 'I am sorry to interrupt you, but it is cool enough for your
mother to go into the town, and I wish you to go with her.'
CHAPTER III.
HEIR HUNTING.
'And she put on her gown of green,
And left her mother at sixteen,
To marry Peter Bell!'--WORDSWORTH.
In the shrubberies of Monks Horton were walking a lady somewhat past
middle age, but full of activity and vigour, with one of those bright
faces that never grow old, and with her a young man, a few years over
twenty, with a grave and almost careworn countenance.
More and more confidential waxed the conversation, for the lady was
making fresh acquaintance with a nephew seldom seen since he had been
her pet and darling as almost a baby, and he was experiencing the
inexpressible charm of tone and manner that recalled the young mother
he had lost in early boyhood.
'Then your mind is made up,' she said; 'you are quite right to decide
on having a profession; but how does your father take it?'
'He is quite convinced that to repeat my uncle's life, dangling on as
heir, would be the most fatal mistake.'
'Assuredly, and all the legal knowledge you acquire is so much in
favour of your usefulness as the squire.'
'If I ever am the squire, of which I have my doubts.'
'You expect Mr. Egremont to marry?'
'Not a future marriage, but one in the past.'
'A private marriage! Do you suspect it?'
'I don't suspect it--I know it. I have been hoping to talk the matter
over with you. Do you remember our first governess, Miss Headworth?'
'My dear Mark, did I not lose at Pera the charms of your infancy?'
'Then neither my mother nor my grandmother ever wrote to you about her?'
'I do remember that it struck me that immunity from governesses was a
compensation for the lack of daughters.'
'Can you tell me no details,' said Mark anxiously. 'Have you no
letters? It was about the time when Blanche was born, when we were
living at Raxley.'
'I am sorry to say that our roving life prevented my keeping old
letters. I have often regretted it. Let me see, there was one who
boxed May's ears.'
'That was long after. I think it was that woman's barbarity that made
my father marry again, and a very good thing that was. It was wretched
before. Miss Headworth was in my own mother's time.'
'I begin to remember something happening that your mother seemed unable
to write about, and your grandmother said that she had been greatly
upset by "that miserable affair," but I was never exactly told what it
had been.'
'Miss Headworth came when I was four or five years old. Edda, as we
used to call her in May's language, was the first person who gave me a
sense of beauty. She had dark eyes and a lovely complexion. I
remember in after times being silenced for saying, "not so pretty as my
Edda." I was extremely fond of her, enough to have my small jealousy
excited when my uncle joined us in our walks, and monopolised her,
turning May and me over to play with his dog!'
'But, Mark, Mr. Egremont is some years older than your father. He
could not have been a young man at that time.'
'So much the worse. Most likely he seemed to her quite paternal. The
next thing I recollect was our being in the Isle of Wight, we two
children, with Miss Headworth and the German nurse, and our being told
of our new sister. Uncle Alwyn and his yacht were there, and we went
on board once or twice. Then matters became confused with me, I
recollect a confusion, papa and grandmamma suddenly arriving, everybody
seeming to us to have become very cross, our dear Miss Headworth
nowhere to be found, our attendants being changed, and our being
forbidden to speak of her again. I certainly never thought of the
matter till a month ago. You know my uncle's eyes have been much
affected by his illness, and he has made a good deal of use of me. He
has got a valet, a fellow of no particular country, more Savoyard than
anything else, I fancy. He is a legacy, like other evils, from the old
General, and seems a sort of necessity to my uncle's existence.
Gregorio they call him. He was plainly used to absolute government,
and viewed the coming down amongst us as an assertion of liberty much
against his will. We could see that he was awfully jealous of my
father and me, and would do anything to keep us out; but providentially
he can't write English decently, though he can speak any language you
please. Well, the man and I came into collision about a scamp of a
groom who was doing intolerable mischief in the village, and whom they
put it on me to get discharged. On that occasion Mr. Gregorio grew
insolent, and intimated to me that I need not make so sure of the
succession. He knew that which might make the Chanoine and me change
our note. Well, my father is always for avoiding rows; he said it was
an unmeaning threat, it was of no use to complain of Gregorio, and we
must digest his insolence. But just after, Uncle Alwyn sent me to hunt
up a paper that was missing, and in searching a writing-case I came
upon an unmistakable marriage certificate between Alwyn Piercefield
Egremont and Alice Headworth, and then the dim recollections I told you
of began to return.'
'What did you do?'
'I thought I had better consult my father, expecting to hear that she
was dead, and that no further notice need be taken of the matter. But
he was greatly disturbed to hear of the certificate, and would hardly
believe me. He said that some friend of my grandmother had written her
word of goings on at Freshwater between his brother and the young
governess, and that they went off at once to put a stop to it, but
found us left with the German maid, who declared that Miss Headworth
had gone off with Mr. Egremont in the yacht. No more was heard of my
uncle for six weeks, and when he came back there was a great row with
the old General, but he absolutely denied being married. I am afraid
that was all the old sinner wished, and they went off together in the
yacht to the West Indies, where it was burnt; but they, as you know,
never came to England again, going straight off to the Mediterranean,
having their headquarters at Sorrento, and cruising about till the
General's death ten years ago.'
'Yes, I once met them at Florence, and thought them two weary pitiable
men. One looked at the General as a curious relic of the old buck of
the Regency days, and compassionated his nephew for having had his life
spoilt by dangling after the old man. It was a warning indeed, and I
am glad you have profited by it, Mark.'
'He came back, after the old man died, to club life in London, and
seldom has been near the old place; indeed, it has been let till
recently, and he wants to let it again, but it is altogether too
dilapidated for that without repairs. So he came down to see about it,
and was taken ill there. But to return to what my father told me. He
was shocked to hear of the certificate, for he had implicitly believed
his brother's denial of the marriage, and he said Miss Headworth was so
childish and simple that she might easily have been taken in by a sham
ceremony. He said that he now saw he had done very wrong in letting
his mother-in-law take all the letters about "that unhappy business"
off his hands without looking at them, but he was much engrossed by my
mother's illness, and, as he said, it never occurred to him as a duty
to trace out what became of the poor thing, and see that she was
provided for safely. You know Mrs. Egremont says laissez faire is our
family failing, and that our first thought is how _not_ to do it.'
'Yes, utter repudiation of such cases was the line taken by the last
generation; and I am afraid my mother would be very severe.'
'Another thing that actuated my father was the fear of getting his
brother into trouble with General Egremont, as he himself would have
been the one to profit by it. So I do not wonder so much at his
letting the whole drop without inquiry, and never even looking at the
letters, which there certainly were. I could not get him to begin upon
it with my uncle, but Mrs. Egremont was strongly on my side in thinking
that such a thing ought to be looked into, and as I had found the paper
it would be best that I should speak. Besides that there was no
enduring that Gregorio should be pretending to hold us in terror by
such hints.'
'Well, and has there been a wife and family in a cottage all this time?'
'Aunt Margaret, he has never seen or heard of her since he left her at
Dieppe! Would you believe it, he thinks himself a victim? He never
meant more than to amuse himself with the pretty little governess; and
he took on board a Mr. and Mrs. Houghton to do propriety, shady sort of
people I imagine, but that she did not know.'
'I have heard of them,' said Lady Kirkaldy, significantly.
'She must have been a kind friend to the poor girl,' said Mark. 'On
some report that Lady de Lyonnais was coming down on her, wrathful and
terrible, the poor foolish girl let herself be persuaded to be carried
off in the yacht, but there Mrs. Houghton watched over her like a
dragon. She made them put in at some little place in Jersey, put in
the banns, all unknown to my uncle, and got them married. Each was
trying to outwit the other, while Miss Headworth herself was quite
innocent and unconscious, and, I don't know whether to call it an
excuse for Uncle Alwyn or not, but to this hour he is not sure whether
it was a legal marriage, and my father believes it was not, looking on
it as a youthful indiscretion. He put her in lodgings at Dieppe, under
Mrs. Houghton's protection, while he returned home on a peremptory
summons from the General. He found the old man in such a state of body
and mind as he tries to persuade me was an excuse for denying the whole
thing, and from that time he represents himself as bound hand and foot
by the General's tyranny. He meant to have kept the secret, given her
an allowance, and run over from time to time to see her, but he only
could get there once before the voyage to the West Indies. The whole
affair was, as he said, complicated by his debts, those debts that the
estate has never paid off. The General probably distrusted him, for he
curtailed his allowance, and scarcely let him out of sight; and he--he
submitted for the sake of his prospects, and thinking the old man much
nearer his end than he proved to be. I declare as I listened, it came
near to hearing him say he had sold his soul to Satan! From the day he
sailed in the Ninon he has never written, never attempted any
communication with the woman whose life he had wrecked, except one
inquiry at Dieppe, and that was through Gregorio.'
'What! the valet?'
Yes. I believe I seemed surprised at such a medium being employed, for
Uncle Alwyn explained that the man had got hold of the secret
somehow--servants always know everything--and being a foreigner he was
likely to be able to trace her out.
'I daresay he profited by the knowledge to keep Alwyn in bondage during
the old man's lifetime.'
'I have no doubt of it, and he expected to play the same game with me.
The fellow reminds me, whenever I look at him, of a sort of incarnate
familiar demon. When I asked my uncle whether he could guess what had
become of her, he held up his hands with a hideous French grimace. I
could have taken him by the throat.'
'Nay, one must pity him. The morals of George IV.'s set had been
handed on to him by the General,' said Lady Kirkaldy, rejoicing in the
genuine indignation of the young face, free from all taint of vice, if
somewhat rigid. 'And what now?'
'He assured me that he could make all secure to my father and me, as if
that were the important point; but finally he perceived that we had no
right to stand still without endeavouring to discover whether there be
a nearer heir, and my father made him consent to my making the search,
grinning at its Quixotism all the time.'
'Have you done anything?'
'Yes. I have been to Jersey, seen the register--July 20, 1859--and an
old French-speaking clerk, who perfectly recollected the party coming
from the yacht, and spoke of her as tres belle. I have also
ascertained that there is no doubt of the validity of the marriage.
Then, deeply mistrusting Master Gregorio, I went on to Dieppe, where I
entirely failed to find any one who knew or remembered anything about
them--there is such a shifting population of English visitors and
residents, and it was so long ago. I elicited from my uncle that she
had an aunt, he thought, of the same name as herself; but my father
cannot remember who recommended her, or anything that can be a clue.
Has any one looked over my grandmother's letters?'
'I think not. My brother spoke of keeping them till I came to London.
That might give a chance, or the Houghtons might know about her. I
think my husband could get them hunted up. They are sure to be at some
continental resort.'
'What's that?' as a sound of singing was heard.
'"Auld Langsyne." The natives are picnicking in the ravine below
there. They used to be rigidly excluded, but we can't stand that; and
this is the first experiment of admitting them on condition that they
don't make themselves obnoxious.'
'Which they can't help.'
'We have yet to see if this is worse than an Austrian or Italian
festival. See, we can look down from behind this yew tree. It really
is a pretty sight from this distance.'
'There's the cleric heading his little boys and their cricket, and
there are the tuneful party in the fern on the opposite side. They
have rather good voices, unless they gain by distance.'
'And there's a girl botanising by the river.'
'Sentimentalising over forget-me-nots, more likely.'
'My dear Mark, for a specimen of young England, you are greatly
behindhand in perception of progress!'
'Ah! you are used to foreigners, Aunt Margaret. You have never
fathomed English vulgarity.'
'It would serve you right to send you to carry the invitation to go
round the gardens and houses.'
'Do you mean it, aunt?'
'Mean it? Don't you see your uncle advancing down the
road--there--accosting the clergyman--what's his name--either Towers or
Spires--something ecclesiastical I know. We only waited to reconnoitre
and see whether the numbers were unmanageable.'
'And yet he does not want to sit for Micklethwayte?'
'So you think no one can be neighbourly except for electioneering! O
Mark, I must take you in hand.'
'Meantime the host is collecting. I abscond. Which is the least showy
part of the establishment?'
'I recommend the coal cellar--'and, as he went off--'poor boy, he is a
dear good fellow, but how little he knows how to be laughed at!'
CHAPTER IV.
A NAME.
'Sigh no more lady, lady sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot on sea and one on land--
To one thing constant never.'--Old Ballad.
'So you have ventured out again,' said Lady Kirkaldy, as her nephew
strolled up to her afternoon tea-table under a great cedar tree:
'The coast being clear, and only distant shouts being heard in the
ravine--
'"Like an army defeated
The choir retreated;
And now doth fare well
In the valley's soft swell,"'
said the aunt.
'At least you have survived; or is this the reaction,' said the nephew,
putting on a languid air.
'There were some very nice people among them, on whom the pictures were
by no means thrown away. What would you say, Mark, if I told you that
I strongly suspect that I have seen your lost aunt?'
'Nonsense!' cried Mark, as emphatically as disrespectfully.
'I am not joking in the least,' said Lady Kirkaldy, looking up at him.
'I heard the name of Egremont, and made out that it belonged to a very
lady-like pretty-looking woman in gray and white; she seemed to be
trying to check and tame a bright girl of eighteen or so, who was in a
perfect state of rapture over the Vandykes. I managed to ask the
clergyman who the lady was, and he told me she was a Mrs. Egremont, who
lives with her aunt, a Miss Headworth, who boards girls for the High
School; very worthy people, he added.'
'Headworth?'
'Yes.'
'But if it were, she would have known your name.'
'Hardly. The title had not come in those days; and if she heard of us
at all it would be as Kerrs. I ventured further to put out a feeler by
asking whether he knew what her husband had been, and he said he
believed he had been lost at sea, but he, Mr. Spyers I mean, had only
been at Micklethwayte three or four years, and had merely known her as
a widow.'
'I suppose it is worth following up,' said Mark, rather reluctantly. 'I
wish I had seen her. I think I should know Miss Headworth again, and
she would hardly know me.'
'You see what comes of absconding.'
'After all, it was best,' said Mark. 'Supposing her to be the real
woman, which I don't expect, it might have been awkward if she had
heard my name! How can we ascertain the history of this person without
committing ourselves?'
Lord Kirkaldy, an able man, who had been for many years a diplomatist,
here joined the party, and the whole story was laid before him. He was
new to Micklethwayte, having succeeded a somewhat distant kinsman, and
did not know enough of the place to be able to fix on any one to whom
to apply for information; but the result of the consultation was that
Lady Kirkaldy should go alone to call on Miss Headworth, and explain
that she was come to inquire about a young lady of the same name, who
had once been governess to the children of her sister, Lady Adelaide
Egremont. Mark was rather a study to his uncle and aunt all the
evening. He was as upright and honourable as the day, and not only
acted on high principle, but had a tender feeling to the beautiful
playfellow governess, no doubt enhanced by painful experiences of
successors chosen for their utter dissimilarity to her. Still it was
evidently rather flat to find himself probably so near the tangible
goal of his romantic search; and the existence of a first cousin had
been startling to him, though his distaste was more to the taking her
from second-rate folk in a country town than to the overthrow of his
own heirship. At least so he manifestly and honestly believed, and
knowing it to be one of those faiths that make themselves facts, the
Kirkaldys did not disturb him in it, nor commiserate him for a loss
which they thought the best thing possible for him.
Miss Headworth was accustomed to receive visitors anent boarders, so
when Lady Kirkaldy's card was brought to her, the first impression was
that some such arrangement was to be made. She was sitting in her
pretty little drawing-room alone, for Nuttie and her mother had gone
out for a walk with Miss Nugent.
The room, opening on the garden, and cool with blinds, had a certain
homely grace about the faded furniture. The drawings on the walls were
good, the work quaint and tasteful. There was a grand vase of
foxgloves before the empty grate, and some Marshal Nial roses in a
glass on the table. The old lady herself--with alert black eyes and a
sweet expression--rose from her chair in the window to receive her
guest.
Lady Kirkaldy felt reassured as to the refinement of the surroundings,
and liked the gentle but self-possessed tones of the old lady. She
noticed the foxgloves.
'Yes,' said Miss Headworth, 'they are the fruits of yesterday's
expedition. My two children, as I call them, brought them home in
triumph. I cannot tell you what pleasure Lord Kirkaldy's kindness gave
them--and many more.'
'I am glad,' said the lady, while she said to herself, 'now for it,'
and sat forward. 'It struck me,' she said, 'on hearing your name that
you might be related to--to a young lady who lived a good while ago in
the family of my sister, Lady Adelaide Egremont.'
A strange look came into Miss Headworth's eyes, her lips trembled, she
clutched tightly the arm of her chair, but then cast a puzzled glance
at her visitor.
'Perhaps if you heard of me then,' said the latter, 'it was as Lady
Margaret Kerr.'
'Yes,' said Miss Headworth, then pausing, she collected herself and
said in an anxious voice, 'Do I understand that your ladyship is come
to inquire for my niece, being aware of the circumstances.'
'I only became aware of them yesterday,' said Lady Kirkaldy. 'I was in
Turkey at the time, and no particulars were given to me; but my nephew,
Mark Egremont, your niece's old pupil, came to consult us, having just
discovered among his uncle's papers evidence of the marriage, of which
of course he had been ignorant.'
'Then,' exclaimed Miss Headworth, holding her hands tightly clasped,
'Shall I really see justice done at last to my poor child?'
'It is young Mark's most earnest wish and his father--'Lady Kirkaldy
hesitated for a word, and Miss Headworth put in:
'His father! Why would he never even acknowledge either Alice's
letters or mine? We wrote several times both to him and Lady Adelaide,
and never received any reply, except one short one, desiring he might
not be troubled on such a subject. It was cruel! Alice said it was not
in his writing. She had done very wrong, and the family might well be
offended, but a poor child like her, just eighteen, might have been
treated with some pity.'
'My sister was in declining health. He was very much engrossed. He
left the matter to--to others,' said Lady Kirkaldy. 'He is very sorry
now that he acquiesced in what was then thought right. He did not then
know that there had been a marriage.'
'I should have thought in that case a clergyman would have been bound
to show the more compassion.'
Lady Kirkaldy knew that the cruel silence had been chiefly the work of
the stem Puritan pitilessness of her mother, so she passed this over,
saying, 'We are all very anxious to atone, as far as possible, for what
is past, but we know little or nothing, only what my nephew Mark has
been able to gather.'
'Little Mark! Alice always talked of him with great affection. How
pleased she will be to hear of his remembering her.'
'Would you object to telling me what you know of this history?' said
Lady Kirkaldy. 'I am afraid it is very painful to you, but I think we
should understand it clearly. Please speak to me as a friend, as woman
to woman.'
'Your ladyship is very kind,' said the poor old lady. 'I have only
mentioned the subject once since we came to settle here, seventeen
years ago, but such things one cannot forget. If you will excuse me, I
have some dates that will assist my accuracy.'
She hurried away, and came back in a few moments, having evidently
dried some tears, perhaps of thankfulness, but she paused as if
reluctant to begin.
'I think your niece had no nearer relation than yourself,' said Lady
Kirkaldy, anxious to set her off and at ease.
'Oh no, or she never would have been so treated. She was an orphan. My
poor brother was a curate. He married--as young men will--on
insufficient means, his strength gave way, and he died of diphtheria
when this poor child was only two years old. Indeed, two little ones
died at the same time, and the mother married again and went to
Shanghai. She did not long live there, poor thing, and little Alice
was sent home to me. I thought I did my best for her by keeping her at
a good school. I have often wished that I had given up my situation,
and become an assistant there, so as to have her more under my own
eyes; but I fancied it important to receive a salary out of which I
could save. I am wearying your ladyship, but I can't but dwell on the
excuses for my poor child.'
'Indeed I wish to hear all the details,' was the sincere and gentle
answer.
'I had her with me generally in the holidays, and I confess I was
absolutely alarmed to see how pretty the child was growing, knowing how
great a disadvantage it often is. She was always a good girl, not
naturally so studious as could be wished, but docile, merry, gentle, a
favourite with every one, and peculiarly innocent and childish. I
wished her to remain a few years longer as teacher, but it so happened
that Lady Adelaide Egremont, coming to consult the head of the
establishment about a nursery-governess, saw Alice, and was so much
struck with her sweet face, which was all sunshine then, as to insist
on engaging her.'
'Ah! my dear sister, I remember her enthusiastic letter about her
pretty governess, and her boy's affection for her, an affection that
has lasted--'
'It seemed so safe. A clergyman's family in the country, and so kind a
lady at the head, that, though Alice had been educated for a superior
governess, it appeared the best beginning she could have. And she was
very happy, and met with great kindness. Only, unfortunately, Lady
Adelaide was delicate, and for many weeks entirely confined to the
sofa. Mr. Egremont's elder brother was much there. He seemed to my
poor inexperienced child quite elderly, and his attentions like those
of--of an old uncle--she told me afterwards--'
'He must really have been over forty--'
'No doubt my poor Alice was unguarded. We know what a merry, happy,
childish girl may be, but I never heard that her conduct was even
censured while she remained at Baxley, though I find that Captain
Egremont used to join them in their walks, under pretext of playing
with the children. Then she was sent to Freshwater with the two eldest
children during Lady Adelaide's confinement, and there, most
unjustifiably, Captain Egremont continually visited them from his
yacht, and offered to take them out in it. Alice knew she ought not to
go without a married lady on board, and he brought a Mr. and Mrs.
Houghton to call, who were very kind and caressing to her and the
children, so that she thought all was right. Oh! Lady Kirkaldy, I
don't mean to defend her, I daresay she was very giddy and silly, she
reproaches herself, poor dear, but I do say that a wicked advantage was
taken of her innocence and ignorance. She says that she had begun to
grow a little uneasy at the way people looked when Captain Egremont
joined them on the beach; and the nurse, a German, said something that
she could not understand. On the 1st of July--yes--but I have the date
here--came a telegram to the hotel to have rooms for Lady de Lyonnais
and Mr. Egremont ready by the evening. The whole place knew it, and
some meddling person burst on Alice with the news, roughly and coarsely
given, that they were coming to call her to account for her goings on.
Captain Egremont found her crying in the utmost terror, and--she really
hardly knew what he said to her--she thinks he offered to shelter her
on board the Ninon, from Lady de Lyonnais' first wrath while he and
Mrs. Houghton explained matters; but she cannot tell, for she lost her
senses with fright, only knew that he was kind and sweet to her in her
distress, and thought only of escaping. Well, I don't excuse her. Of
course it was the most terrible and fatal thing she could have done,
and--' The good old lady was quite overcome, and Lady Kirkaldy had
tears in her eyes as she said,
'It was frightful folly--but she was guarded.'
'Yes, her innocence was guarded, thank God,' said Miss Headworth
fervently. 'You see she did know that Mr. and Mrs. Houghton were on
board, and Mrs. Houghton was a truly kind protector who deserved her
confidence, though, poor lady, she admitted to me that her own conduct
had not been-strictly correct.'
'How long was it before you heard of her?'
'There was a dreadful letter from Mr. Egremont enclosing what was due
of her salary, and then I heard no more for seven months. I went to
the Isle of Wight and made all inquiries, but the nurse and children
had gone away immediately, and I could obtain no trace of them.'
'Then she--your niece, never wrote.'
'She was afraid, poor dear. She had never been at her ease with me.
Her mother had taught her to think me strict and harsh, and she had
never opened to me in those days. Besides, he had forbidden her. At
last, however, in January, came a letter from this Mrs. Houghton,
telling me that my Alice was very unwell at Dieppe, that nothing had
been heard of her husband, Captain Egremont, to whom she had been
married on the 20th of July at St. Philippe, in Jersey, and that she
herself was obliged to leave the place almost immediately; but she
would, if possible, wait till my arrival, as Mrs. Egremont was not in a
condition to be left alone. My dear friends, with whom I was then
living, were as kind as possible, and set me free to go. I was there
in three days, and truly the dear, beautiful, merry girl I had parted
with only a year before was a sad piteous sight. Mrs. Houghton seemed
broken-hearted at leaving her, thinking there was little chance of her
living; but Mr. Houghton, who, I am afraid, was a professed gambler,
had got into some scrape, and was gone to Paris, where she had to
follow him. She told me all about it, and how, when Captain Egremont
fancied that a marriage in the Channel Islands was one he could play
fast and loose with, she had taken care that the formalities should be
such as to make all secure. Foolish and wrong as poor Alice had been,
she had awakened all the best side of that poor woman's nature, and no
mother could have been more careful and tender. She gave me the
certificate--here it is--and assured me that it would hold good. I
have shown it to a lawyer, and he said the same; but when I sent a copy
to Mr. Egremont, my letter was returned unopened.'
'Captain Egremont had denied the marriage, and they believed him,' said
Lady Kirkaldy. 'It is hard to believe that he could be so heartless,
but he was in bondage to the old General Egremont, and dreaded losing
his inheritance.'
'So he told them in his one visit to Dieppe. He said he must keep his
marriage secret, but promised an allowance, on condition that Alice
would live quietly at Dieppe, and not communicate with any one of her
own family or his. He had left £100 with her, but that was nearly
gone, and she had never heard from him. It had preyed on her, and she
was so ill that I never expected, any more than Mrs. Houghton, to see
her recover. I stayed there with her; she could not be moved, even if
she would have consented, when she was continually expecting him; but
at last--four days after her little girl was born--came the news of the
Ninon having been burnt, with all on board, three months before. Do
you know, strange to say, though I had feared so much to tell her, she
began to revive from that time. The suspense and watching were over.
She saw that he had not deserted her, and believed that he had loved
her to the last. She cried a great deal, but it was in a peaceful,
natural way. I wrote then, as I had already written, to Lady Adelaide
and to Mr. Egremont, but was not answered.'
'I can account for that,' said Lady Kirkaldy. 'My sister had been
ordered to Madeira in the autumn, and there they remained till her
death in May. All the letters were sent to my mother, and she did not
think fit to forward, or open, any bearing on the subject. In the
meantime Mr. Egremont was presented to the family living, and on his
return moved to Bridgefield Egremont. And you came here?'
'Of course I could not part with my poor Alice again. Mr. and Mrs.
Fordyce, whose daughter I had long ago educated, had always kept up a
correspondence with me, and, knowing all the story, proposed to me to
come here. He was then rector of the old church, and by their help and
recommendation, with such capital as I had, we were able to begin a
little school; and though that has had to give way to the High School,
what with boarders, and with Alice's employment as daily governess, we
have, I am thankful to say, gone on very well and comfortably, and my
dear child has recovered her cheerfulness, though she can never be
quite what--I think she was meant to be,' said the old lady, with a sad
smile, 'though perhaps she is something better.'
'Do you think she was absolutely convinced of his death?'
'Do you mean that he is alive?' exclaimed Miss Headworth in dismay.
'Oh! he is a wickeder man than even I supposed, to have forsaken her
all these years. Is my poor child in his power? Must her peace, now
she has attained it, be disturbed?'
'There is a great deal to take into consideration,' said Lady Kirkaldy.
'I had better tell you how this visit of mine came about, and explain
some matters about the Egremont family.'
She then told how Captain Egremont, after a brief service in the Life
Guards, had been made to retire, that the old General, whose heir he
was, might keep him in attendance on him. Already self-indulgent and
extravagant, the idleness of the life he led with the worn-out old roue
had deadened his better feelings, and habituated him to dissipation,
while his debts, his expensive habits, and his dread of losing the
inheritance, had bound him over to the General. Both had been saved
from the fire in the Ninon, whence they were picked up by a Chilian
vessel, and they had been long in communicating with home. The General
hated England, and was in broken health. He had spent the remaining
years of his life at various continental resorts, where he could enjoy
a warm climate, combined with facilities for high play.
When at length, he died, Captain Egremont had continued the life to
which he had become accustomed, and had of late manifested an
expectation that his nephew Mark should play the same part by him as he
had done by the General, but the youth, bred in a very different tone,
would on no account thus surrender himself to an evil bondage. Indeed
he felt all the severity of youthful virtue, and had little toleration
for his uncle's ways of thinking; though, when the old man had come
home ill, dejected, and half blind, he had allowed himself to be made
useful on business matters. And thus he had discovered the marriage,
and had taken up the cause with the ardour stimulated by a chivalrous
feeling for the beautiful vision of his childhood, whose sudden
disappearance had ended his brightest days.
'I suppose it is right and generous of the young man,' said Miss
Headworth. 'But since the--the man is alive, I wish my poor Alice
could have been left at peace!'
'You forget that her daughter has rights which must be taken into
consideration.'
'Little Nuttie! Dear child! I should so far like her to be provided
for, so far as that she need not go out in the world to earn her own
livelihood. But no! better be as we are than accept anything from that
man!'
'I quite understand and respect your feeling, Miss Headworth,' returned
the lady; 'but may I return to my question whether you think your niece
has any doubt of her husband being dead.'
Miss Headworth considered. 'Since you ask me, I think she has kept the
possibility of the life before her. We have never mentioned the
subject, and, as I said, the belief in his death ended a great suspense
and sense of wounded affection. She began soon and vigorously to turn
her attention to the support of her child, and has found a fair measure
of happiness; but at the same time she has shrunk from all notice and
society, more than would be natural in so very young a widow and so
attractive, more than I should have expected from her original
character. And once, when she did apprehend symptoms of admiration,
she insisted that I should tell the history, enough, as she said, to
make it plain that it was impossible. There was one night too, when
she had scarlatina, and was a little lightheaded, only four years ago,
when she talked a good deal about his coming back; but that might have
been only the old impression on her brain, of that long watching at
Dieppe. He--Captain Egremont, does not yet know where she is?'
'No, certainly not. But I fear he must.'
'I suppose he ought,' sighed Miss Headworth; 'but in the meantime, till
we know what line he takes, surely she need not be unsettled by the
knowledge of his existence.'
'By no means. You had better act as you think best about that. But
you will not object to my nephew, her old pupil, Mark, coming to see
her? I will make him promise not to enter upon the subject.'
Miss Headworth had only time to make a sign of reluctant acquiescence
when the door opened and mother and daughter came in. Nuttie first,
eager as usual and open-mouthed, unaware that any one was there, for
Lady Kirkaldy, wishing to avoid talk and observation, had left her
carriage at the livery stables, and walked to St. Ambrose Road. The
girl, whom in a moment she classed as small, dark, and oddly like May
Egremont, stopped short at sight of a stranger; the mother would have
retreated but for Miss Headworth's nervous call 'Alice, my dear, here
is Lady Kirkaldy.'
Very lovely was Lady Kirkaldy's impression as she saw a slender figure
in a dark gray linen dress, and a face of refined, though not
intellectual, beauty and sweetness, under a large straw hat with a good
deal of white gauziness about it, and the curtsey was full of natural
grace.
'You do not know me,' said Lady Kirkaldy, taking her hand, 'but I am
aunt to some former pupils of yours, one of whom, Mark Egremont, is
very anxious to come and see you.'
'Mark! My dear little Mark,' and her face lighted up. 'How very kind
of him. But he is not little Mark now.'
'He is not a very big Mark either. Most of the Egremonts are small. I
see your daughter takes after them,' said Lady Kirkaldy, shaking hands
with Ursula, who looked at her in unmitigated amazement.
Alice faltered something about Lady Adelaide.
'My dear sister fell into a decline, and died while the three children
were still babies. Poor things, I believe they had a sad time till
their father married a Miss Condamine, who has been an excellent
stepmother to them. I have been to see them, but Mark was not then at
home, so he has come to me at Monks Horton. When will he find you at
home? Or may I bring him in at once. He was to meet me at
Micklethwayte.'
'I should like very much to see him,' was the answer. And Miss
Headworth was obliged to say something about her ladyship taking a cup
of tea. Lady Kirkaldy, knowing that Mark was on the watch, set off in
search of him, and found him, as she expected, pacing the pavement in
front of the church. There was no great distance in which to utter her
explanations and cautions, warning him of her promise that the
intelligence of the husband's being alive was to be withheld for a
fitter time, but he promised dutifully, and his aunt then took him in
with her.
The recognition of her claims was a less stunning shock to Alice
Egremont than to her aunt. Shielded by her illness, as well as by her
simplicity and ignorance, she had never been aware of her aunt's
attempted correspondence with the Egremonts, nor of their deafness to
appeals made on her behalf. Far less had it ever occurred to her that
the validity of her marriage could be denied, and the heinous error of
her elopement seemed to her quite sufficient to account for her having
been so entirely cast off by the family. The idea that as wife or
widow she had any claims on them, or that Ursula might have rights
above those of Mark, had not come into her mind, which, indeed, at the
moment was chiefly occupied by the doubt whether the milk was come in,
and by ordering in the best teacups, presented by the boarders.
Thus she was in the passage when Mark entered, and his exclamation
instantly was 'Oh, Edda, dear old Edda! You aren't a bit altered!' and
he put his head under her hat and kissed her, adding, as she seemed
rather startled, 'You are my aunt, you know; and where's my cousin?
You are Ursula?'
He advanced upon Nuttie, took her by the hand and kissed her forehead
before she was aware, but she flashed at him with her black eyes, and
looked stiff and defiant. She had no notion of kisses to herself,
still less to her pretty mother whom she protected with a half proud,
half jealous fondness. How could the man presume to call her by that
foolish name? However, that single effusion had exhausted Mark's
powers of cordiality, or else Nuttie's stiffness froze him. They were
all embarrassed, and had reason to be grateful to Lady Kirkaldy's
practised powers as a diplomate's wife. She made the most of Mrs.
Egremont's shy spasmodic inquiries, and Mark's jerks of information,
such as that they were all living at Bridgefield Egremont, now, that
his sister May was very like his new cousin, that Blanche was come out
and was very like his mother, etc. etc. Every one was more at ease
when Lady Kirkaldy carried the conversation off to yesterday's
entertainment, hoping no one had been overtired, and the like. Mrs.
Egremont lighted up a little and began telling some of the expressions
of delight she had heard, and in the midst, Nuttie, waking from her
trance of stiff displeasure, came plump in with 'Oh! and there's a
water-soldier, a real Stratiotes aculeatus in your lake. May we get
it? Mr. Dutton didn't think we ought, but it would be such a prize!'
'Ursula means a rare water-plant,' said Mrs. Egremont gently, seeing
that Lady Kirkaldy had no notion of the treasure she possessed. 'She
and some of her friends are very eager botanists.'
'I am sure you may,' said the lady, amused.
'Thank you! Then, O mother! Miss Mary and I will go. And we'll wait
till after office hours, and then Gerard Godfrey can come and fish it
out for us! Oh, thank you. He wants the pattern of the Abbot's cross
for an illumination, and he can get some ferns for the church.'
Soon after this ebullition, Lady Kirkaldy carried off her nephew, and
his first utterance outside the door was 'A woman like that will be the
salvation of my uncle.'
'Firstly, if you can bring them together,' said his aunt; 'and
secondly, if there is stuff enough in that pretty creature.'
CHAPTER V.
SUSPENSE.
'Where shall the traitor rest
He, the deceiver?'--SCOTT.
Poor Miss Headworth's peace of mind was utterly destroyed. That the
niece whom she had nursed back to life and happiness, and brought to
love her as a mother, should be at the mercy of a man whom she looked
on as a heartless profligate, was dreadful to her beyond measure. And
it involved Ursula's young life likewise? Could it be a duty, after
these eighteen years, to return to him? What legal rights had he to
enforce the resumption of the wife he had deserted. 'I will consult
Mr. Dutton,' said the old lady to herself; 'Mr. Dutton is the only
person who knows the particulars. He will give me the best advice.'
And while Miss Headworth, over her evening toilette, was coming to this
resolution in one bedroom, Nuttie, in another, was standing aghast at
her mother's agitation, and receiving a confession which filled her
with astonishment.
'I can't think why that gentleman should go and be so affectionate all
on a sudden, 'quoth Nuttie;' if he is my cousin, and so fond of you,
why couldn't he have come to see us before?'
'Oh, Nuttie, dear, you don't understand why it is so good of him! My
dear, now this has come, I must tell you--you must hear--the sad thing
your mother did. Yes, my dear, I was their governess--and--and I did
not--In short, my dear, I eloped.'
'You, mother! Oh what fun!' cried the girl in the utter extremity of
wonder.
'Nuttie!' exclaimed Mrs. Egremont, in a tone of horror and
indignation--nay, of apprehension.
'O mother--I didn't mean that! But I can't get to believe it. You,
little mother mine, you that are so timid and bashful and quiet. That
you--you should have done such a thing.'
'Nuttie, my dear, can't you understand that such a thing would make me
quiet? I am always feeling when I see people, or they bring their
daughters here. "If they only knew--"'
'No, no, no! They would still see you were the sweetest dear. But
tell me all about it. How very much in love you must have been!' said
Nuttie, a magnificent vision of a young sailor with curly hair and open
throat rising before her.
'I think I was more frightened than in love,' faintly said Mrs.
Egremont. 'At least I didn't know it was love, I thought he was only
kind to me.'
'But you liked it?' said Ursula magisterially.
'I liked it, oh, I liked it! It gave me a feeling such as nothing else
ever did, but I never thought of its being love, he was so much older.'
'Older!' exclaimed Nuttie, much taken aback. 'Oh! as old as Mr.
Dutton?'
'Mr. Dutton is thirty-six, I think. Yes, he was older than that.'
'Mother, how could you?' For to be older than Mr. Dutton seemed to the
youthful fancy to be near decrepitude; but she added, 'I suppose he was
very noble, and had done great things.'
'He was the grandest gentleman I ever saw, and had such, a manner,'
said the mother, passing over the latter suggestion. 'Anyway, I never
thought what it all meant--all alone with the children as I was--till I
found people looking at me, and laughing at me, and then I heard Lady
de Lyonnais and Mr. Egremont were coming down, very angry, to send me
away. I ought, I know it now, to have waited, for they would have
written to my aunt. But I was horribly frightened, and I couldn't bear
to think of never seeing him again, and he came and comforted me, and
said he would take me to Mrs. Houghton, the kind lady who was staying
in the Ninon, and they would make it all square for me--and then--oh!
it was very sweet--but I never knew that we were sailing away to Jersey
to be married! I knew it was very dreadful without any one's leave,
but it was so noble of him to take the poor little governess and defend
her, and it wasn't as if my mother had been alive. I didn't know Aunt
Ursel then as I did afterwards. And Mrs. Houghton said there was
nothing else to be done.'
'O don't leave off, mother. Do tell me. How long did you have him?'
'Six weeks then--and afterwards one fortnight at Dieppe. He was not
free. He had an old uncle, General Egremont, who was sick and
hot-tempered, and he was obliged to keep everything secret from him,
and therefore from everybody else. And so I was to live at Dieppe,
while he went out to take care of his uncle, and you know--you know--'
'Yes, I know, dear mother. But I am sure he was saving somebody else,
and it was a noble death! And I know how Aunt Ursel came to Dieppe,
and how I--your own little Frenchwoman--came to take care of you. And
haven't we been jolly without any of these fine relations that never
looked after you all this time? Besides, you know he is very likely to
be on a lonely coral island, and will come home yet. I often think he
is.'
'My dear child, I have been happier than I deserved,' said Alice
Egremont, drying her eyes. 'But oh! Nuttie, I hope you will be a wiser
woman than your mother.'
'Come, don't go on in that way! Why, I've such advantages! I've Miss
Mary, and Aunt Ursel, and Mr. Spyers, and Mr. Dutton, and you, you poor
little thing, had nobody! One good thing is, we shall get the
water-soldier. Mr. Dutton needn't come, for he's like a cat, and won't
soil his boots, but Gerard is dying to get another look at the old
ruin. He can't make up his mind about the cross on one of the
stone-coffin lids, so he'll be delighted to come, and he'll get it out
of the pond for us. I wonder when we can go. To-night is choir
practice, and to-morrow is cutting-out day.'
Miss Headworth was not sorry that the small sociabilities of the
friends did not leave her alone with her niece all that evening, or the
next day, when there was a grand cutting-out for the working party,--an
operation always performed in the holidays. Miss Headworth had of late
years been excused from it, and it gave her the opportunity she wanted
of a consultation with Mr. Dutton. He was her prime adviser in
everything, from her investments (such as they were) to the
eccentricities of her timepieces; and as the cuckoo-clock had that
night cuckooed all the hours round in succession, no one thought it
wonderful that she should send a twisted note entreating him to call as
early as he could in the afternoon. Of course Nuttie's chatter had
proclaimed the extraordinary visitors, and it needed not the old lady's
dash under "on an anxious affair" to bring him to her little
drawing-room as soon as he could quit his desk. Perhaps he hastened
his work with a hope in his heart which he durst not express, but the
agitation on the usually placid face forbade him to entertain it for an
instant, and he only said, 'So our expedition has led to unforeseen
consequences, Miss Headworth.' And then she answered under her breath,
as if afraid of being overheard: 'Mr. Dutton, my poor child does not
know it yet, but the man is alive!'
Mr. Dutton compressed his lips. It was the greater shock, for he had
actually made inquiries at the Yacht Club, but the officials there
either had not been made aware of the reappearance of the two
Egremonts, or they did not think it worth while to look beyond the
record which declared that all hands had perished, and the connection
of the uncle and nephew with the Yacht Club had not been renewed.
Presently he said, 'Then hers was a right instinct. There is reason to
be thankful.'
Miss Headworth was too full of her own anxieties to heed his causes for
thankfulness. She told what she had heard from Lady Kirkaldy and from
Mark Egremont, and asked counsel whether it could be Alice's duty to
return to the man who had deserted her, or even to accept anything from
him. There was an impetuous and indignant spirit at the bottom of the
old lady's heart, in spite of the subdued life she had led for so many
years, and she hardly brooked the measured considerate manner in which
her adviser declared that all depended on circumstances, and the manner
in which Captain Egremont made the first move. At present no one was
acting but young Mark, and, as Mr. Dutton observed, it was not a matter
in which a man was very likely to submit to a nephew's dictation.
There was certainly no need for Mrs. Egremont to _force_ her presence
on him. But Mr. Dutton did think that for her own sake and her child's
there ought to be full recognition of their rights, and that this
should be proved by their maintenance.
'I imagine that Ursula may probably be a considerable heiress, and her
lights must not be sacrificed.'
'Poor little girl! Will it be for her happiness? I doubt it greatly!'
'Of that I suppose we have no right to judge,' said Mr. Dutton,
somewhat tremulously. 'Justice is what we have to look to, and to allow
Nuttie to be passed over would be permitting a slur to be cast on her
and her mother.'
'I see that,' said Miss Headworth, with an effort. 'I suppose I am
after all a selfish, faithless old woman, and it is not in my hands
after all. But I must prepare my poor Alice for what may be coming.'
'If any terms are offered to her, she had better put the matter into a
lawyer's hands. Dobson would be a safe man to deal with.'
Miss Headworth was amazed that he--who had helped her in many a little
question bordering on law--should not proffer his aid now in this
greatest stress. He was a resolute, self-controlled man, and she never
guessed at the feeling that made him judge himself to be no fitting
champion for Alice Egremont against her husband. Ever since, ten years
ago, he had learnt that his beautiful neighbour did not regard herself
so certainly a widow as to venture to open her heart to any other love,
he had lived patiently on, content to serve her as a trustworthy
friend, and never betraying the secret hope so long cherished and now
entirely crushed.
He was relieved to escape from the interview, and the poor old lady
remained a little more certain as to her duty perhaps, but with a
certainty that only made her more unhappy, and she was so restless and
nervous that, in the middle of the evening's reading of Archbishop
Trench's Lectures on History, Alice suddenly broke off in the very
middle of a sentence and exclaimed, 'Aunt Ursel! you are keeping
something from me.'
Miss Headworth made a faint attempt by saying something about
presently, and glancing with her eyes to indicate that it was to be
reserved till after Nuttie's bedtime, but the young lady comprehended
the signs and exclaimed, 'Never mind me, Aunt Ursel,--I know all about
mother; she told me last night.'
'It is!' broke in Mrs. Egremont, who had been watching her aunt's face.
'You have heard of _him_.'
'Oh, my father! You really have!' cried Nuttie. 'Then he really was
on the desert island all this time; I was quite sure of it. How
delightful!' She jumped up and looked at the door, as if she expected
to see him appear that instant, clad in skins like Robinson Crusoe, but
her aunt's nervous agitation found vent in a sharp reproof: 'Nuttie,
hold your tongue, and don't be such a foolish child, or I shall send
you out of the room this instant!'
'But aunt?' gasped Alice, unable to bear the suspense.
'Yes, my poor dear child. Captain Egremont with the General got off
with some of the crew in a boat when the Ninon was burnt. He spent a
good many years abroad with the old man, but he has now inherited the
family place, and is living there.' Miss Headworth felt as if she had
fired a cannon and looked to see the effect.
'Ah, if we could have stayed at Dieppe!' said Mrs. Egremont. 'But we
did write back to say where we could be heard of.'
'That was of no use. Mark found no traces of us when he went thither.'
'Did he send Mark?'
'No. My dear Alice, I must not conceal from you that this is all Mr.
Mark Egremont's doing. He seems to have been helping his uncle with
his papers when he came on the evidence of your marriage, and,
remembering you as he does, he forced the confession of it from the
captain, and of his own accord set forth to discover what had become of
you and to see justice done to you.'
'Dear little Mark!' said she; 'he always was such an affectionate
little boy.'
'And now, my dear, you must consider how you will receive any advances
on his part.'
'Oh, Aunt Ursel, don't! I can't talk now. Please let me go to bed.
Nuttie, dear, you need not come yet.'
The desire for solitude, in which to realise what she had heard, was
overpowering, and she fled away in the summer twilight, leaving Nuttie
with wide open eyes, looking after her vanished hero and desert island.
'My poor Alice!' sighed the old lady.
'Aunt Ursel!' exclaimed Nuttie, 'was--I mean--is my father a good or a
bad man?'
'My dear, should a daughter ask such a question?'
'Aunt Ursel, I can't help it. I think I ought to know all about it,'
said Nuttie gravely, putting away her childishness and sitting down by
her aunt. 'I did not think so much of it when mother told me they
eloped, because, though I know it was very wrong, people do do odd
things sometimes when they are very much in love (she said it in a
superior patronising tone that would have amused Miss Headworth very
much at any other time); and it has not spoilt mother for being the
dearest, sweetest, best thing in the world, and, besides, they had
neither of them any fathers or mothers to disobey. But, then, when I
found he was so old, and that he kept it a secret, and must have told
stories only for the sake of money (uttered with extreme contempt), I
didn't like it. And if he left her as Theseus left Ariadne, or Sir
Lancelot left Elaine, I--I don't think it is nice. Do you think he
only pretended to be lost in the Ninon to get rid of her, or that he
could not find her?'
'The Ninon was really reported lost with all on board,' said Miss
Headworth. 'That was ascertained. He was saved by a Chilian ship, and
seems to have been a good while making his way back to Europe. I had
taken care that our address should be known at Dieppe, but it is quite
possible that he may not have applied to the right people, or that they
may not have preserved my letter, so that we cannot feel sore that he
was to blame.'
'If he had been worth anything at all, he would have moved heaven and
earth to find her!' cried Nuttie; 'and you said yourself it was all
_that_ Mark's doing!'
'He seems to be a very upright and generous young man, that Mr. Mark
Egremont,' said Miss Headworth, a whole romance as to Nuttie's future
destiny sweeping across her mind in an instant, with a mental
dispensation to first cousins in such a case. 'I think you will find
him a staunch champion even against his own interests.'
Perceptions came across Nuttie. 'Oh, then I am a sort of lost heiress,
like people in a story! I see! But, Aunt Ursel, what do you think
will happen?'
'My dear child, I cannot guess in the least. Perhaps the Egremont
property will not concern you, and only go to male heirs. That would
be the best thing, since in any case you must be sufficiently provided
for. Your father must do that.'
'But about mother?'
'A proper provision must be insisted on for her,' said Miss Headworth.
'It is no use, however, to speculate on the future. We cannot guess
how Mr. Mark Egremont's communication will be received, or whether any
wish will be expressed for your mother's rejoining your father. In
such a case the terms must be distinctly understood, and I have full
trust both in Mr. Mark and in Lady Kirkaldy as her champions to see
that justice is done to you both.'
'I'm sure he doesn't deserve that mother should go to him.'
'Nor do I expect that he will wish it, or that it would be proper; but
he is bound to give her a handsome maintenance, and I think most
probably you will be asked to stay with your uncle and cousins,' said
Miss Headworth, figuring to herself a kind of Newstead Abbey or some
such scene of constant orgies at Bridgefield Egremont.
'I shall accept nothing from the family that does not include mother,'
said Nuttie.
'Dear child, I foresee many trials, but you must be her protector.'
'That I will,' said Nuttie; and in the gallant purpose she went to bed,
to find her mother either asleep or feigning slumber with tears on her
cheek.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WATER-SOLDIER.
'Presumptuous maid, with looks intent,
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.'--GRAY.
It all seemed like a dream to Ursula, perhaps likewise to her mother,
when they rose to the routine of daily life with the ordinary interests
of the day before them. There was a latent unwillingness in Mrs.
Egremont's mind to discuss the subject with either aunt or daughter;
and when the post brought no letter, Ursula, after a moment's sense of
flatness, was relieved, and returned to her eager desire to hurry after
the water-soldier. It was feasible that very afternoon. Mary Nugent
came in with the intelligence.
'And can Gerard come? or we shall only look at it.'
'Yes, Gerard can come, and so will Mr. Dutton,' said Mary, who,
standing about half-way between Mrs. Egremont and her daughter, did not
think herself quite a sufficient chaperon.
'He will look on like a hen at her ducklings,' said Nuttie. 'It is
cruel to take him, poor man!'
'Meantime, Nuttie, do you like an hour of "Marie Stuart?"'
'Oh, thank you!' But she whispered, 'Aunt Ursel, may I tell her?'
'Ask your mother, my dear.'
Leave was given, half reluctantly, and with a prohibition against
mentioning the subject to any one else, but both mother and aunt had
confidence in Mary Nugent's wisdom and discretion, so the two friends
sat on the wall together, and Ursula poured out her heart. Poor little
girl! she was greatly discomfited at the vanishing of her noble vision
of the heroic self-devoted father, and ready on the other hand to
believe him a villain, like Bertram Risingham, or 'the Pirate,' being
possessed by this idea on account of his West Indian voyages. At any
rate, she was determined not to be accepted or acknowledged without her
mother, and was already rehearsing magnanimous letters of refusal.
Miss Mary listened and wondered, feeling sometimes as if this were as
much a romance as the little yacht going down with the burning ship;
and then came back the recollection that there was a real fact that
Nuttie had a father, and that it was entirely uncertain what part he
might take, or what the girl might be called on to do. Considering
anxiously these bearings of the question, she scarcely heard what she
was required to assent to, in one of Nuttie's eager, 'Don't you think
so?'
'My dear Nuttie,' she said, rousing herself, 'what I do think is that
it will all probably turn out exactly contrariwise to our imaginations,
so I believe it would be wisest to build up as few fancies as possible,
but only to pray that you may have a right judgment in all things, and
have strength to do what is right, whatever you may see that to be.'
'And of course that will be to stick by mother.'
'There can be little doubt of that, but the how? No, dear, do not let
us devise all sorts of _hows_ when we have nothing to go upon. That
would be of no use, and only perplex you when the time comes. It would
be much better to "do the nexte thinge," and read our "Marie Stuart."'
Nuttie pouted a little, but submitted, though she now and then broke
into a translation with 'You know mother will never stand up for
herself,' or 'They think I shall be asked to stay with the Egremonts,
but I must work up for the exam.'
However, the school habit of concentrating her attention prevailed, and
the study quieted Nuttie's excitement. The expedition took place as
arranged. There was a train which stopped so that the party could go
down by it, and the distance was not too great for walking back.
Mr. Dutton met them on the platform, well armed with his neat silk
umbrella, and his black poodle, Monsieur, trotting solemnly after him.
Gerard Godfrey bore materials for an exact transcript of the Abbot's
monumental cross, his head being full of church architecture, while
Nuttie carried a long green tin case, or vasculum as she chose to call
it, with her three vowels, U A E, and the stars of the Little Bear
conspicuously painted on it in white.
'You did not venture on that the other day,' said Mr. Dutton. 'How
much of the park do you mean to carry away in it?'
'Let me take it,' said Gerard politely.
'No, thank you. You'd leave it behind, while you were pottering over
the mouldings.'
'You are much more likely to leave it behind yourself.'
'What--with my soldier, my Stratiotes, in it? I think I see myself.'
'Give it to me,' said Gerard. 'Of course I can't see you carrying a
great thing like that.'
'Can't you, indeed?'
'Gently, gently, my dear,' said Miss Mary, as the young people seemed
very near a skirmish, and the train was sweeping up. Then there was
another small scuffle, for Nuttie had set her heart on the third class;
but Mr. Dutton had taken second-class tickets, and was about to hand
them into a carriage whence there had just emerged a very supercilious
black-moustached valet, who was pulling out a leather-covered
dressing-case, while Gerard was consoling Nuttie by telling her that
Monsieur never deigned to go third class.
'It is a smoking carriage,' said Miss Nugent, on the step. 'Pah! how
it smells,' as she jumped back.
'Beautiful backy--a perfect nosegay,' said Gerard.
'Trust that fellow for having the best.'
'His master's, no doubt,' suggested Mr. Dutton.
'You'd better go in it, to enjoy his reversion,' said Nuttie.
'And where's my escort, then?'
'Oh, I'm sure we don't want you.'
'Nuttie, my dear,' expostulated Miss Nugent, dragging her into the next
carriage.
'You may enjoy the fragrance still,' said Nuttie when seated. 'Do you
see--there's the man's master; he has stood him up against that post,
with his cigar, to wait while he gets out the luggage. I daresay you
can get a whiff if you lean out far enough.'
'I say! that figure is a study!' said Gerard. 'What is it that he is
so like?'
'Oh! I know,' said Nuttie. 'It is Lord Frederick Verisopht, and the
bad gentlefolks in the pictures to the old numbers of Dickens that you
have got, Miss Mary. Now, isn't he? Look! only Lord Frederick wasn't
fat.'
Nuttie was in a state of excitement that made her peculiarly
unmanageable, and Miss Nugent was very grateful to Mr. Dutton for his
sharp though general admonition against staring, while, under pretext
of disposing of the umbrella and the vasculum, he stood up, so as to
block the window till they were starting.
There was no one else to observe them but a demure old lady, and in ten
minutes' time they were in open space, where high spirits might work
themselves off, though the battle over the botanical case was ended by
Miss Nugent, who strongly held that ladies should carry their own extra
encumbrances, and slung it with a scarf over Nuttie's shoulders in a
knowing knapsack fashion.
The two young people had known one another all their lives, for Gerard
was the son of a medical man who had lived next door to Miss Headworth
when the children were young. The father was dead, and the family had
left the place, but this son had remained at school, and afterwards had
been put into the office at the umbrella factory under charge of Mr.
Dutton, whose godson he was, and who treated him as a nephew. He was a
good-hearted, steady young fellow, with his whole interest in
ecclesiastical details, wearing a tie in accordance with 'the colours,'
and absorbed in church music and decorations, while his recreations
were almost all in accordance therewith.
There was plenty of merriment, as he drew and measured at the very
scanty ruins, which were little more than a few fragments of wall,
overgrown luxuriantly with ivy and clematis, but enclosing some fine
old coffin-lids with floriated crosses, interesting to those who cared
for architecture and church history, as Mr. Dutton tried to make the
children do, so that their ecclesiastical feelings might be less
narrow, and stand on a surer foundation than present interest, a
slightly aggressive feeling of contempt for all the other town
churches, and a pleasing sense of being persecuted.
They fought over the floriations and mouldings with great zest, and
each maintained a date with youthful vigour--both being, as Mr. Dutton
by and by showed them, long before the foundation. The pond had been
left to the last with a view to the wellbeing of the water-soldier on
the return. Here the difficulties of the capture were great, for the
nearest plant flourished too far from the bank to be reached with
comfort, and besides, the sharp-pointed leaves to which it owes its
name were not to be approached with casual grasps.
'Oh Monsieur, I wish you were a Beau,' sighed Nuttie. 'Why, are you
too stupid to go and get it?'
'It is a proof of his superior intelligence,' said Mr. Dutton.
'But really it is too ridiculous--too provoking--to have come all this
way and not get it,' cried the tantalised Nuttie. 'Oh, Gerard, are you
taking off your boots and stockings? You duck!'
'Just what I wish I was,' said the youth, rolling up his trousers.
But even the paddling in did not answer. Mr. Dutton called out
anxiously, 'Take care, Gerard, the bottom may be soft,' and came down
to the very verge just in time to hold out his hand, and prevent an
utterly disastrous fall, for Gerard, in spite of his bare feet, sank at
once into mud, and on the first attempt to take a step forward, found
his foot slipping away from under him, and would in another instant
have tumbled backwards into the slush and weeds. He scrambled back,
his hat falling off into the reeds, and splashing Mr. Dutton all over,
while Monsieur began to bark 'with astonishment at seeing his master in
such a plight,' declared the ladies, who stood convulsed with cruel
laughter.
'Isn't it dreadful?' exclaimed Ursula.
'Well! It might have been worse,' gravely said Mr. Dutton, wiping off
the more obnoxious of his splashes with his pocket handkerchief.
'Oh I didn't mean you, but the water-soldier,' said Nuttie. 'To have
come five miles for it in vain!'
'I don't know what to suggest,' added Gerard. 'Even if the ladies were
to retire--'
'No, no,' interposed Mr. Dutton, ''tis no swimming ground, and I forbid
the expedient. You would only be entangled in the weeds.'
'Behold!' exclaimed Mary, who had been prowling about the banks, and
now held up in triumph one of the poles with a bill-hook at the end
used for cutting weed.
'Bravo, Miss Nugent!' cried Gerard.
'Female wit has circumvented the water-soldier,' said Mr. Dutton.
'Don't cry out too soon,' returned Mary; 'the soldier may float off and
escape you yet.'
However, the capture was safely accomplished, without even a dip under
water to destroy the beauty of the white flowers. With these, and a
few waterlilies secured by Gerard for the morrow's altar vases, the
party set out on their homeward walk, through plantations of whispering
firs, the low sun tingeing the trunks with ruddy light; across heathery
commons, where crimson heath abounded, and the delicate blush-coloured
wax-belled species was a prize; by cornfields in ear hanging out their
dainty stamens; along hedges full of exquisite plumes of feathering or
nodding grass, of which Nuttie made bouquets and botanical studies, and
Gerard stored for harvest decorations. They ran and danced on together
with Monsieur at their heels, while the elders watched them with some
sadness and anxiety. Free-masonry had soon made both Mary and Mr.
Dutton aware of each other's initiation, and they had discussed the
matter in all its bearings, agreed that the man was a scoundrel, and
the woman an angel, even if she had once been weak, and that she ought
to be very resolute with him if he came to terms. And then they looked
after their young companions, and Mr. Dutton said, 'Poor children, what
is before them?'
'It is well they are both so young,' answered Mary.
CHAPTER VII.
THAT MAN.
'It is the last time--'tis the last!'--SCOTT.
Sundays were the ever-recurring centres of work and interests to the
little circle in St. Ambrose's Road. To them the church services and
the various classes and schools were the great objects and excitements
of the week. A certain measure of hopeful effort and varying success
is what gives zest to life, and the purer and higher the aim, and the
more unmixed the motives, the greater the happiness achieved by the
'something attempted, something done.'
Setting apart actual spiritual devotion, the altar vases, purchased by
a contribution of careful savings, and adorned with the Monks Horton
lilies, backed by ferns from the same quarter; the surplices made by
the ladies themselves, the chants they had practised, the hymns they
had taught, could not but be much more interesting to them than if they
had been mere lookers on. Every cross on the markers, every flower on
the altar cloth was the work of one or other of them; everything in the
church was an achievement, and choir boys, school children, Bible
classes, every member of the regular congregation, had some special
interest; nay, every irregular member or visitor might be a convert in
time--if not a present sympathiser, and at the very least might swell
the offertory that was destined to so many needs of the struggling
district.
Thus it was with some curiosity mingled with self-reproach that Nuttie,
while singing her Benedictus among the tuneful shop-girls, to whom she
was bound to set an example, became aware of yesterday's first-class
traveller lounging, as far as the rows of chairs would permit, in the
aisle, and, as she thought, staring hard at her mother. It was well
that Mrs. Egremont's invariable custom was never to lift her eyes from
her book or her harmonium, or she surely must have been disconcerted,
her daughter thought, by the eyes that must have found her out, under
her little black net bonnet and veil, as the most beautiful woman in
church,--as she certainly was,--even that fine good-for-nothing
gentleman thinking so. Nuttie would add his glances to the glories of
her lovely mother!
And she did so, with triumph in her tone of reprobation, as she trotted
off, after the early dinner, to her share of Sunday-school work as
usual under Miss Nugent's wing. It began with a children's service,
and then ensued, in rooms at the factory, lent by Mr. Dutton, the
teaching that was to supply the omissions of the Board School; the
establishment of a voluntary one being the next ambition of St.
Ambrose's.
Coming home from their labours, in the fervent discussion of their
scholars, and exchanging remarks and greetings with the other teachers
of various calibres, the friends reached their own road, and there, to
their amazement, beheld Miss Headworth.
'Yes, it really is!' cried Nuttie. 'We can't be too late? No--there's
no bell! Aunt Ursel! What has brought you out? What's the matter?
Where's mother?'
'In the house. My dear,' catching hold of her, and speaking
breathlessly, 'I came out to prepare you. He is come--your father--'
'Where?' cried Nuttie, rather wildly.
'He is in the drawing-room with your mother. I said I would send you.'
Poor Miss Headworth gasped with agitation. 'Oh! where's Mr.
Dutton--not that anything can be done--'
'Is it _that man_?' asked Nuttie, and getting no answer, 'I know it is!
Oh Aunt Ursel, how could you leave her with him? I must go and protect
her. Gerard--come. No, go and fetch Mr. Dutton.'
'Hush! hush, Nuttie,' cried her aunt, grasping her. 'You know nothing
about it. Wait here till I can tell you.'
'Come in here, dear Miss Headworth,' said Mary, gently drawing her arm
into hers, for the poor old lady could hardly stand for trembling, and
bidding Gerard open the door of her own house with the latch-key.
She took them into the dining-room, so as not to disturb her mother,
sent Gerard off after Mr. Dutton in the very uttermost astonishment and
bewilderment, and set Miss Headworth down in an easy-chair, where she
recovered herself, under Mary's soothing care, enough to tell her story
in spite of Nuttie's exclamations. 'Wait! wait, Nuttie! You mustn't
burst in on them so! No, you need not be afraid. Don't be a silly
child! He won't hurt her! Oh no! They are quite delighted to meet.'
'Delighted to meet?' said Nuttie, as if transfixed.
'Yes,' said her aunt. 'Oh yes, I always knew the poor child cared for
him and tried to believe in him all along. He only had to say the
word.'
'I wouldn't,' cried the girl, her eyes flashing. 'Why didn't you ask
him how he could desert her and leave her?'
'My dear! how can one come between husband and wife? Oh, my poor
Alice!'
'How was it, how did they meet, dear Miss Headworth?' asked Mary,
administering the wine she had been pouring out.
'You hadn't been gone half an hour, Alice was reading to me, and I was
just dozing, when in came Louisa. "A gentleman to see Mrs. Egremont,"
she said, and there he was just behind. We rose up--she did not know
him at once, but he just said "Edda, my little Edda, sweeter than ever,
I knew you at once," or something of that sort, and she gave one little
cry of "I knew you would come," and sprang right into his arms.
I--well, I meant to make him understand how he had treated her, but
just as I began "Sir"--he came at me with his hand outstretched--'
'You didn't take it, aunt, I hope?' cried Nuttie.
'My dear, when you see him, you will know how impossible it is. He
_has_ that high-bred manner it is as if he were conferring a favour.
"Miss Headworth, I conclude," said he, "a lady to whom I owe more than
I can express." Just as if I had done it for his sake.' Miss Nugent
felt this open expression dangerous on account of the daughter, and she
looked her consternation at Mr. Dutton, who had quietly entered,
ruthlessly shutting Gerard Godfrey out with only such a word of
explanation as could be given on the way.
'Then he comes with--with favourable intentions,' said Mary, putting as
much admonition as she could into her voice.
'Oh! no doubt of that,' said Miss Headworth, drawing herself together.
'He spoke of the long separation,--said he had never been able to find
her, till the strange chance of his nephew stumbling on her at Abbots
Norton.'
'That is--possib--probably true,' said Mr. Dutton.
'It can't be,' broke in Nuttie. 'He never troubled himself about it
till his nephew found the papers. You said so, Aunt Ursel! He is a
dreadful traitor of a man, just like Marmion, or Theseus, or Lancelot,
and now he is telling lies about it! Don't look at me. Aunt Ursel,
they are lies, and I _will_ say it, and he took in poor dear mother
once, and now he is taking her in again, and I can't bear that he
should be my father!'
It was so entirely true, yet so shocking to hear from her mouth, that
all three stood aghast, as she stood with heaving chest, crimson
cheeks, and big tears in her eyes. Miss Headworth only muttered, 'Oh,
my poor child, you mustn't!'
Mr. Dutton prevented another passionate outburst by his tone of grave,
gentle authority. 'Listen a moment, Ursula,' he said. 'It is
unhappily true that this man has acted in an unjustifiable way towards
your mother and yourself. But there are, no doubt, many more excuses
for him than you know of, and as I found a few years ago that the
people at Dieppe had lost the address that had been left with them, he
must have found no traces of your mother there. You cannot understand
the difficulties that may have been in his way. And there is no use,
quite the contrary, in making the worst of him. He has found your
mother out, and it seems that he claims her affectionately, and she
forgives and welcomes him--out of the sweet tenderness of her heart.'
'She may--but I can't,' murmured Nuttie.
'That is not a fit thing for a daughter, nor a Christian, to say,' Mr.
Dutton sternly said.
''Tis not for myself--'tis for her,--'objected Nuttie.
'That's nonsense; a mere excuse,' he returned. 'You have nothing at
all to forgive, since he did not know you were in existence. And as to
your mother, whom you say you put first, what greater grief or pain can
you give her than by showing enmity and resentment against her husband,
when she, the really injured person, loves and forgives?'
'He's a bad man. If she goes back to him, I know he will make her
unhappy--'
'You don't know any such thing, but you do know that your opposition
will make her unhappy. Remember, there's no choice in the matter. He
has legal rights over you both, and since he shows himself ready (as I
understand from Miss Headworth that he is) to give her and you your
proper position, you have nothing to do but to be thankful. I think
myself that it is a great subject of thankfulness that your mother can
return so freely without any bitterness. It is the blessing of such as
she--'
Nuttie stood pouting, but more thoughtful and less violent, as she
said, 'How can I be thankful? I don't want position or anything. I
only want him to let my--my own mother, and aunt, and me alone.'
'Child, you are talking of what you do not understand. You must not
waste any more time in argument. Your mother has sent for you, and it
is your duty to go and let her introduce you to your father. I have
little doubt that you will find him very unlike all your imagination
represents him, but let that be as it may, the fifth Commandment does
not say, "Honour only thy good father," but, "Honour thy father." Come
now, put on your gloves--get her hat right, if you please, Miss Mary.
There--now, come along, be a reasonable creature, and a good girl, and
do not give unnecessary pain and vexation to your mother.' He gave her
his arm, and led her away.
'Well done, Mr. Dutton!' exclaimed Miss Nugent.
'Poor Mr. Dutton!' All Aunt Ursel's discretion could not suppress that
sigh, but Mary prudently let it pass unnoticed, only honouring in her
heart the unselfishness and self-restraint of the man whose long,
patient, unspoken hopes had just received a death-blow.
'Oh, Mary! I never thought it would have been like this!' cried the
poor old lady. 'I ought not to have spoken as I did before the child,
but I was so taken by surprise! Alice turned to him just as if he had
been the most faithful, loving husband in the world. She is believing
every word he says.'
'It is very happy for her that she can,' pleaded Mary.
'So it is, yes, but--when one knows what he is, and what she is! Oh,
Mr. Dutton, is the poor child gone in?'
'Yes, I saw her safe into the room. She was very near running off up
the stairs,' said Mr. Dutton. 'But I daresay she is fascinated by this
time. That sort of man has great power over women.'
'Nuttie is hardly a woman yet,' said Miss Nugent.
'No, but there must be a strong reaction, when she sees something
unlike her compound of Marmion and Theseus.'
'I suppose there is no question but that they must go with him!' said
Miss Headworth wistfully.
'Assuredly. You say he--this Egremont--was affectionate,' said Mr.
Dutton quietly, but Mary saw his fingers white with his tight clenching
of the bar of the chair.
'Oh yes, warmly affectionate, delighted to find her prettier than ever,
poor dear; I suppose he meant it. Heaven forgive me, if I am judging
him too hardly, but I verily believe he went to church to reconnoitre,
and see whether she pleased his fancy--'
'And do you understand,' added Mr. Dutton, 'that he is prepared to do
her full justice, and introduce her to his family and friends as his
wife, on equal terms? Otherwise, even if she were unwilling to stand
up for herself, it would be the duty of her friends to make some
stipulations.'
'I am pretty sure that he does,' said the aunt; 'I did not stay long
when I saw that I was not wanted, but I heard him say something about
his having a home for her now, and her cutting out the Redcastle
ladies.'
'Besides, there is the nephew, Mr. Mark Egremont,' said Mary. 'He will
take care of her.'
'Yes,' said Mr. Dutton. 'It appears to be all right. At any rate,
there can be no grounds for interference on our part.'
Mr. Dutton took his leave with these words, wringing Miss Headworth's
hand in mute sympathy, and she, poor old lady, when he was gone, fairly
collapsed into bitter weeping over the uncertain future of those whom
she had loved as her own children, and who now must leave her desolate.
Mary did her best with comfort and sympathy, and presently took her to
share her griefs and fears with gentle old Mrs. Nugent.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FATHER.
'I do think this lady
To be my child.'--King Lear.
Nuttie, in her fresh holland Sunday dress, worked in crewels with wild
strawberries by her mother's hands, and with a white-trimmed straw hat,
was almost shoved into the little drawing-room by Mr. Dutton, though he
was himself invisible.
Her eyes were in such a daze of tears that she hardly saw more at first
than that some one was there with her mother on the sofa. 'Ah, there
she is!' she heard her mother cry, and both rose. Her mother's arm was
round her waist, her hand was put into another, Mrs. Egremont's voice,
tremulous with exceeding delight, said, 'Our child, our Ursula, our
Nuttie! Oh, this is what I have longed for all these years! Oh,
thanks, thanks!' and her hands left her daughter to be clasped and
uplifted for a moment in fervent thanksgiving, while Nuttie's hand was
held, and a strange hairy kiss, redolent of tobacco-smoking, was on her
forehead--a masculine one, such as she had never known, except her
cousin Mark's, since the old rector died, and she had grown too big for
Mr. Dutton's embraces. It was more strange than delightful, and yet
she felt the polish of the tone that said, 'We make acquaintance
somewhat late, Ursula, but better late than never.'
She looked up at this new father, and understood instantly what she had
heard of his being a grand gentleman. There was a high-bred look about
him, an entire ease and perfect manner that made everything he did or
said seem like gracious condescension, and took away the power of
questioning it at the moment. He was not above the middle size, and
was becoming unwieldy; but there was something imposing and even
graceful in his deportment, and his bald narrow forehead looked
aristocratic, set off between side tufts of white hair, white whiskers,
and moustaches waxed into sharp points, Victor Emmanuel fashion, and a
round white curly beard. His eyes were dark, and looked dull, with
yellow unwholesome corners, and his skin was not of a pleasant colour,
but still, with all Nuttie's intentions of regarding him with horror,
she was subdued, partly by the grand breeding and air of distinction,
and partly by the current of sympathy from her mother's look of perfect
happiness and exultation. She could not help feeling it a favour,
almost an undeserved favour, that so great a personage should say, 'A
complete Egremont, I see. She has altogether the family face.'
'I am so glad you think so,' returned her mother.
'On the whole it is well, but she might have done better to resemble
you, Edda,' he said caressingly; 'but perhaps that would have been too
much for the Earlsforth natives. William's girls will have enough to
endure without a double eclipse!' and he laughed.
'I--I don't want--' faltered the mother.
'You don't want, no, but you can't help it,' he said, evidently with a
proud delight in her beauty. 'Now that I have seen the child,' he
added, 'I will make my way back to the hotel.'
'Will you--won't you stay to tea or dinner?' said his wife, beginning
with an imploring tone which hesitated as she reviewed possible chops
and her aunt's dismay.
'Thank you, I have ordered dinner at the hotel,' he answered, 'and
Gregorio is waiting for me with a cab. No doubt you will wish to make
arrangements with Madame--the old lady--and I will not trouble her
further to-night. I will send down Gregorio to-morrow morning, to tell
you what I arrange. An afternoon train, probably, as we shall go no
farther than London. You say Lady Kirkaldy called on you. We might
return her visit before starting, but I will let you know when I have
looked at the trains. My compliments to Miss Headworth. Good evening,
sweetest.' He held his wife in a fond embrace, kissing her brow and
cheeks and letting her cling to him, then added, 'Good evening, little
one,' with a good-natured careless gesture with which Nuttie was quite
content, for she had a certain loathing of the caresses that so charmed
her mother. And yet the command to make ready had been given with such
easy authority that the idea of resisting it had never even entered her
mind, though she stood still while her mother went out to the door with
him and watched him to the last.
Coming back, she threw her arms round her daughter, kissed her again
and again, and, with showers of the glad tears long repressed, cried,
'Oh, my Nuttie, my child, what joy! How shall I be thankful enough!
Your father, your dear father! Now it is all right.' Little sentences
of ecstasy such as these, interspersed with caresses, all in the
incoherence of overpowering delight, full of an absolute faith that the
lost husband had loved her and been pining for her all these years, but
that he had been unable to trace her, and was as happy as she was in
the reunion.
The girl was somewhat bewildered, but she was carried along by this
flood of exceeding joy and gladness. The Marmion and Theseus images
had been dispelled by the reality, and, with Mr. Dutton's sharp reproof
fresh upon her, she felt herself to have been doing a great injustice
to her father; believed all that her mother did, and found herself the
object of a romantic recognition--if not the beggar girl become a
princess, at any rate, the little school-teacher a county lady! And
she had never seen her mother so wildly, overpoweringly happy with joy.
That made her, too, feel that something grand and glorious had happened.
'What are we going to do?' she asked, as the vehemence of Mrs.
Egremont's emotion began to work itself off.
'Home! He takes us to his home! _His_ home!' repeated her mother, in
a trance of joy, as the yearnings of her widowed heart now were
fulfilled.
'Oh, but Aunt Ursel!'
'Poor Aunt Ursel! Oh, Nuttie, Nuttie, I had almost forgotten! How
could I?' and there was a shower of tears of compunction. 'But he said
he owed everything to her! She will come with us! Or if she doesn't
live with us, we will make her live close by in a dear little cottage.
Where is she? When did she go? I never saw her go.'
The sound of the front door was heard, for the visitor had been watched
away and Miss Headworth was returning to her own house to be there
received with another fervent gush of happiness, much more trying to
her, poor thing, than to Nuttie.
There was evensong imminent, and the most needful act at the moment was
to compose the harmonium-player sufficiently for her to take her part.
Miss Headworth was really glad of the necessity, since it put off the
discussion, and made a reason for silencing Nuttie until all should be
more recovered from the first agitation. Alice Egremont herself was
glad to carry her gratitude and thankfulness to the Throne of Grace,
and in her voluntary, and all her psalms, there was an exulting strain
that no one had thought the instrument capable of producing, and that
went to the heart of more than one of her hearers. No one who knew her
could doubt that hers was simply innocent exultation in the recovery of
him whom she so entirely loved and confided in. But there could not
but be terrible doubts whether he were worthy of that trust, and what
the new page in her life would be.
Miss Headworth had said they would not talk till after church, but
there was no deferring the matter then. She was prepared, however,
when her niece came up to her in a tender deprecating manner, saying,
'Aunt Ursel, dear Aunt Ursel, it does seem very ungrateful, but--'
'He is going to take you away? Yes, I saw that. And it ought to be,
my dear. You know where?'
'Yes; to London first, to be fitted out, and then to his own home. To
Bridgefield Egremont. I shall have to see Mr. Egremont,' and her voice
sank with shame. 'But Mark will be good to me, and why should I care
when I have him.'
'It is quite right. I am glad it should be so,' firmly said the old
lady.
'And yet to leave you so suddenly.'
'That can't be helped.'
'And it will only be for a little while,' she added, 'till you can make
arrangements to come to us. My dear husband says he owes you
everything. So you must be with us, or close to us.'
'My dear, it's very dear and good of you to think of it, but I must be
independent.' She put it in those words, unwilling again to speak
unguardedly before Nuttie.
'Oh, dear auntie, indeed you must! Think what you are to us, and what
you have done for us. We can't go away to be happy and prosperous and
leave you behind. Can we, Nuttie? Come and help me to get her to
promise. Do--do dearest auntie,' and she began the coaxing and
caressing natural to her, but Nuttie did not join in it, and Miss
Headworth shook her head and said gravely--
'Don't, Alice. It is of no use. I tell you once for all that my mind
is made up.'
Alice, knowing by long experience that, when her aunt spoke in that
tone, persuasion was useless, desisted, but looked at her in
consternation, with eyes swimming in tears. Nuttie understood her a
little better, and felt the prickings of distrust again.
'But, aunt, dear aunt, how can we leave you? What will you do with all
the boarders,' went on Mrs. Egremont.
'I shall see my way, my dear. Do not think about that. It is a great
thing to see you and this child receive justice.'
'And only think, after all the hard things that have been said of him,
that we should meet first at church! He would not wait and send
letters and messages by Mark. You see he came down himself the first
moment. I always knew he would. Only I am so sorry for him, that he
should have lost all those sweet years when Nuttie was a tiny child.
She must do all she can to make up to him.'
'Oh dear!' broke out Nuttie. 'It is so strange! It will be all so
strange!'
'It will be a very new life,' said her aunt, rather didactically; 'but
you must do your best to be a good daughter, and to fill your new
position, and I have no doubt you will enjoy it.'
'If I could but take all with me!' said Nuttie. 'Oh dear! whatever
will you do, Aunt Ursel? Oh mother, the choir! Who will play the
harmonium? and who will lead the girls? and whatever will Mr. Spyers
do? and who will take my class? Mother, couldn't we stay a little
longer to set things going here?'
'It is nice of you to have thought of it, my dear,' said Mrs. Egremont,
'but your father would not like to stay on here.'
'But mightn't I stay, just a few days, mother, to wish everybody
good-bye? Mr. Dutton, and Miss Mary, and Gerard, and all the girls?'
There was some consolation in this plan, and the three women rested on
it that night, Mrs. Egremont recovering composure enough to write three
or four needful notes, explaining her sudden departure. The aunt could
not talk of a future she so much dreaded for her nieces, losing in it
the thought of her own loneliness; Alice kept back her own loving,
tender, undoubting joy with a curious sense that it was hard and
ungrateful towards the aunt; but it was impossible to think of that,
and Nuttie was in many moods.
Eager anticipation of the new unseen world beyond, exultation in
finding herself somebody, sympathy with her mother's happiness, all had
their share, but they made her all the wilder, because they were far
from unmixed. The instinctive dislike of Mr. Egremont's countenance,
and doubt of his plausible story, which had vanished before his
presence, and her mother's faith, returned upon her from time to time,
caught perhaps from her aunt's tone and looks. Then her aunt had been
like a mother to her--her own mother much more like a sister, and the
quitting her was a wrench not compensated for as in Mrs. Egremont's
case by a more absorbing affection. Moreover, Nuttie felt sure that
poor Gerard Godfrey would break his heart. As the mother and daughter
for the last time lay down together in the room that had been theirs
through the seventeen years of the girl's life, Alice fell asleep with
a look of exquisite peace and content on her face, feeling her long
term of trial crowned by unlooked-for joy, while Ursula, though
respecting her slumbers too much to move, lay with wide-open eyes, now
speculating on the strange future, now grieving over those she
left--Aunt Ursel, Gerard, Mary, and all such; the schemes from which
she was snatched, and then again consoling herself with the hope that,
since she was going to be rich, she could at once give all that was
wanted--the white altar cloth, the brass pitcher--nay, perhaps finish
the church and build the school! For had not some one said something
about her position? Oh yes, she had not thought of it before, but,
since she was the elder brother's daughter, she must be the heiress!
There was no doubt a grand beautiful story before her; she would
withstand all sorts of fascinations, wicked baronets and earls
innumerable, and come back and take Gerard by the hand, and say, 'Pride
was quelled and love was free.' Not that Gerard had ever uttered a
word tending in that direction since he had been seven years old, but
that would make it all the prettier; they would both be silently
constant, till the time came, perhaps when she was of age. Mother
would like it, though _that_ father would certainly be horrid. And how
nice it would be to give Gerard everything, and they would go all over
the Continent, and see pictures, and buy them, and see all the
cathedrals and all the mountains. But perhaps, since Mark Egremont had
really been so generous in hunting up the cousin who was displacing
him, she was bound in duty to marry him; perhaps he reckoned on her
doing so. She would be generous in her turn, give up all the wealth to
him, and return to do and be everything to Micklethwayte. How they
would admire and bless her. And oh! she was going to London
to-morrow--London, which she so much wished to see--Westminster Abbey,
British Museum, All Saints, National Gallery, no end of new dresses.
Half-waking, half-dreaming, she spent the night which seemed long
enough, and the light hours of the summer morning seemed still longer,
before she could call it a reasonable time for getting up. Her
splashings awoke her mother, who lay smiling for a few moments,
realising and giving thanks for her great joy, then bestirred herself
with the recollection of all that had to be done on this busy morning
before any summons from her husband could arrive.
Combining packing and dressing, like the essentially unmethodical
little woman she was, Mrs. Egremont still had all her beautiful silky
brown hair about her shoulders when the bell of St. Ambrose's was heard
giving its thin tinkling summons to matins at half-past seven. She was
disappointed; she meant to have gone for this last time, but there was
no help for it, and Nuttie set off by herself.
Gerard Godfrey was at his own door. He was not one of the regular
attendants at the short service, being of that modern species that
holds itself superior to 'Cranmer's prayers,' but on this morning he
hastened up to her with outstretched hand.
'And you are going away!' he said.
'I hope to get leave to stay a few days after mother,' she said.
'To prolong the torment?' he said.
'To wish everybody good-bye. It is a great piece of my life that is
come to an end, and I can't bear to break it off so short.'
'And if you feel so, who are going to wealth and pleasure, what must it
be to those who are left behind?'
'Oh!' said Nuttie, 'some one will be raised up. That's what they
always say.'
'I shall go into a brotherhood,' observed Gerard desperately.
'Oh, don't,' began Nuttie, much gratified, but at that moment Miss
Nugent came out at her door, and Mr. Spyers, who was some way in
advance, looked round and waited for them to come up. He held out his
hands to her and said, 'Well, Nuttie, my child, you are going to begin
a new life.'
'Oh dear! I wish I could have both!' cried Nuttie, not very relevantly
as far as the words went.
'Scheiden und weiden thut weh!' quoted Mary.
'If his place was only Monks Horton. What will Aunt Ursel do?'
'I think perhaps she may be induced to join us,' said Mary. 'We mean
to do our best to persuade her.'
'And there's the choir! And my class, and the harmonium,' went on
Nuttie, while Gerard walked on disconsolately.
'Micklethwayte has existed without you, Nuttie,' said Mr. Spyers,
taking her on with him alone. 'Perhaps it will be able to do so again.
My dear, you had better look on. There will be plenty for you to learn
and to do where you are going, and you will be sure to find much to
enjoy, and also something to bear. I should like to remind you that
the best means of going on well in this new world will be to keep self
down and to have the strong desire that only love can give to be
submissive, and to do what is right both to God and your father and
mother. May I give you a text to take with you? "Children, obey your
parents in the Lord, for this is right."'
They were at the door and there was no time for an answer, but Nuttie,
as she took her place, was partly touched and partly fretted at the
admonition.
The question as to her remaining a day or two after her mother was soon
disposed of. Mrs. Egremont sent a pretty little note to make the
request, but the elegant valet who appeared at ten o'clock brought a
verbal message that his master wished Mrs. and Miss Egremont to be
ready by two o'clock to join him in calling on Lady Kirkaldy at Monks
Horton, and that if their luggage was ready by four o'clock, he
(Gregorio) would take charge of it, as they were all to go up to town
by the 4.40 train.
'Did he have my note?' faltered Alice, stimulated by the imploring
glances of aunt and daughter, but anticipating the answer.
'Yes, madame, but he wishes that Miss Egremont should accompany you
immediately.'
'Of course,' was Alice's comment, 'now that he has found his child, he
cannot bear to part with her.'
And all through the farewells that almost rent the gentle Alice's heart
in two, she was haunted by the terror that she or her daughter should
have red eyes to vex her husband. As to Mr. Dutton, he had only come
in with Gerard in a great hurry just after breakfast, said there was
much to do to-day at the office, as they were going to take stock, and
they should neither of them have time to come home to luncheon. He
shook the hands of mother and daughter heartily, promised to 'look
after' Miss Headworth, and bore off in his train young Gerard, looking
the picture of woe, and muttering 'I believe he has got it up on
purpose;' while mother and daughter thought it very odd, and rather
unkind.
CHAPTER IX.
NEW PLUMES.
'And ye sall walk in silk attire,
And siller hae to spare.'--Old Ballad.
The very best open fly and pair of horses, being the equipage most like
a private carriage possessed by the Royal Hotel, came to the door with
Mr. Egremont seated in it, at a few minutes after two o'clock, and
found Alice in her only black silk, with a rose in her bonnet, and a
tie to match on her neck, hastily procured as signs of her wifehood.
She had swallowed her tears, and Nuttie was not a crying person, but
was perfectly scarlet on her usually brown cheeks. Her father muttered
some civility about back seats, but it was plain that it was only in
words, and she never thought of anything but looking back, with her
last wave to her aunt and the two maids, one crying at the gate, the
other at the door.
'There,' said Mr. Egremont, as they drove away, 'that is over!'
'My dear aunt,' said his wife. 'Who can express her goodness to me?'
'Cela va sans dire,' was the reply. 'But these are connections that
happily Ursula is young enough to forget and leave behind.'
'I shall never forget!' began Nuttie, but she saw her father composing
himself in his corner without paying the slightest heed to what she was
saying, and she encountered a warning and alarmed glance from her
mother, so she was forced to content herself with uttering silent vows
of perpetual recollection as she passed each well-known object,--the
unfinished church, with Mr. Spyers at the door talking to old Bellman;
the Town Hall, whose concerts, lectures, and S. P. G. meetings had been
her chief gaiety and excitement; the School of Art, where Lady
Kirkaldy's appearance now seemed to her to have been like that of a
bird of omen; past the shops in the High Street, with a little
exultation at the thought of past desires which they had excited. Long
could she have rattled away, her hopes contradicting her regrets, and
her regrets qualifying her anticipations, but she saw that her mother
was nervous about every word and gesture, and fairly looked dismayed
when she exclaimed, 'Oh, mother, there's Etta Smith; how surprised she
will be!' bowing and smiling with all her might.
There was a look of bare toleration on Mr. Egremont's face, as if he
endured because it would soon be over, as Nuttie bowed several times,
and his wife, though less quick to catch people's eyes, sometimes also
made her recognition. When the streets were past and Nuttie had aimed
her last nods at the nursery parties out walking on the road, she
became aware that those cold, lack-lustre, and yet sharply critical
eyes of her father were scanning her all over.
'She has been educated?' he presently said to his wife.
'Oh yes,' was the eager answer. 'She is in the highest form at the
High School, and has to go up for the Senior Local Examination. Miss
Belper makes sure that she will get a first class.'
Mr. Egremont gave a little wave of the hand, as dismissing something
superfluous, and said, 'I hope she has some accomplishments.'
'She has done very fairly in French and German--'
'And Latin,' put in Ursula.
'And she has had several prizes at the School of Art.'
'And music? That's the only thing of any value in society,' he said
impatiently, and Mrs. Egremont said more timidly, 'She has learnt music
regularly.'
'But I don't care about it,' broke in Nuttie. 'I haven't mother's ear
nor her voice. I learnt the science in case I should have to teach,
and they make me practise. I don't mind classical music, but I can't
stand rubbish, and I think it is waste of time.'
Mr. Egremont looked fairly amused, as at the outspoken folly of an
enfant terrible, but he only said, either to his wife or to himself, 'A
little polish, and then she may be fairly presentable.'
'We have taken great pains with her,' answered the gentle mother,
evidently taking this as a great compliment, while the daughter was
tingling with indignation. She, bred up by mother, and aunt, and Mary
Nugent, to be barely presentable. Was not their society at
Micklethwayte equal in good manners to any, and superior, far superior,
in goodness and intelligence to these stupid fashionable people, who
undervalued all her real useful acquirements, and cared for nothing but
trumpery music.
The carriage entered the park, and Nuttie saw lake and woods from a
fresh point of view. The owners were both at home, and Nuttie found
herself walking behind her parents into a cheerful apartment, half
library, half morning-room. Mrs. Egremont was by far the most shy and
shrinking of the party, but it was an occasion that showed her
husband's complete tact and savoir favre. He knew perfectly well that
the Kirkaldys knew all about it, and he therefore took the initiative.
'You are surprised to see us,' he said, as he gave his hand, 'but we
could not leave the country without coming to thank Lady Kirkaldy for
her kindness in assisting in following up the clue to Mrs. Egremont's
residence.'
'I am very happy,' said Lady Kirkaldy, while all were being seated.
'I think it was here that my nephew Mark first met one whom, child as
he was, he could not but remember.'
'I don't think you met him here,' said Lady Kirkaldy to Mrs. Egremont;
'but he heard the name and was struck by it.'
'Dear Mark!' was the response. 'He was so kind.'
'He is a dear good boy,' chimed in my lady.
'Yes,' said her lord, 'an excellent good fellow with plenty of brains.'
'As he well knows,' said Mr. Egremont. 'Oh yes; I quite agree with all
you say of him! One ought to be thankful for the possession of a rare
specimen.'
It was in the tone in which Falstaff discussed that sober boy, Lord
John of Lancaster. Lord Kirkaldy asked if the visitors were going to
remain long in the neighbourhood.
'We are due in London to-night,' replied Mr. Egremont. 'We shall spend
a day or two there, and then go home. Alice,' he added, though his
wife had never heard him call her so before, 'Lady Kirkaldy knows your
inexperience. Perhaps she would be good enough to give you some
addresses that might be useful.'
'I shall be delighted,' said the lady, cordially looking at the
blushing Mrs. Egremont.
'Dressmaker, and all the rest of it,' said Mr. Egremont. 'You know
better than she does what she will require, and a little advice will be
invaluable. Above all, if you could tell her how to pick up a maid.'
Lady Kirkaldy proposed to take the mother and daughter up to her
dressing-room, where she kept her book of addresses to London
tradesmen; and Mr. Egremont only begged that they would remember the
4.40 train. Then Lord Kirkaldy was left to entertain him, while the
ladies went up the broad staircase to the pleasant room, which had a
mingled look of refinement and usefulness which struck Nuttie at once.
Lady Kirkaldy, as soon as the door was shut, took her visitor by the
hand, kissed her forehead, and said, 'You must let me tell you how glad
I am.'
The crystal veil at once spread over Alice's eyes.
'Oh, thank you. Lady Kirkaldy! I am _so_ happy, and yet I am so
afraid. Please tell me what we shall _do_ so that we may not vex him,
so high bred and fastidious as he is?'
'Be yourself! That's all, my dear,' said Lady Kirkaldy tenderly.
'Don't be afraid. You are quite incapable of doing anything that could
distress the most fastidious taste.'
It was perfectly true of the mother, perhaps less so of the daughter;
but Lady Kirkaldy only thought of her as a mere girl, who could easily
be modelled by her surroundings. The kind hostess applied herself to
giving the addresses of the people she thought likely to be most useful
in the complete outfit which she saw would be necessary, explaining to
which establishments she applied with confidence if she needed to
complete her wardrobe in haste, feeling certain that nothing would be
sent her that she disliked, and giving leave to use her name. She soon
saw that the mother was a little dazed, while Ursula's eyes grew
rounder at the unlimited vista of fine clothes, and she assented, and
asked questions as to the details. As to a maid, Lady Kirkaldy would
write to a person who would call on Mrs. Egremont at the hotel in
London, and who might be what was wanted; and in conclusion, Lady
Kirkaldy, with some diffidence, begged to be written to--'if--if,' she
said, 'there happened to be any difficulty about which you might not
like to consult Mrs. William Egremont.' Nuttie hardly knew whether to
be grateful or not, for she did not believe in any standard above that
of Micklethwayte, and she was almost angry at her mother's grateful
answer--'Oh, thank you! I should be so grateful! I am so afraid of
annoying him by what he may think small, ignorant, country-town ways!
You will understand--'
Lady Kirkaldy did understand, and she dreaded what might be before the
sweet little yielding woman, not from want of breeding so much as from
the long-indulged selfishness of her husband; but she encouraged her as
much as possible, and promised all possible counsel, bringing her
downstairs again just in time.
'Pretty little soul!' said Lord Kirkaldy, as the fly clattered away. 'I
wonder whether Mark has done her a kindness!'
'It is just what she is, a pretty, nay, a beautiful soul, full of
tenderness and forgiveness and affection and humility, only I doubt
whether there is any force or resolution to hold her own. You smile!
Well, perhaps the less of that she has the better she may get on with
him. Did he say anything about her?'
'No; I think he wants to ignore that they have not spent the last
twenty years together.'
'That may be the best way for all parties. Do you think he will behave
well to her?'
'No man could well do otherwise to such a sweet little thing,' said
Lord Kirkaldy; 'especially as she will be his most obedient slave, and
will make herself necessary to him. It is much better luck than he
deserves; but I pity her when she comes to make her way with yon
ladies!'
'I wish I was there! I know she will let herself be trodden on!
However, there's Mark to stand up for her, and William Egremont will do
whatever he thinks right and just. I wish I knew how his wife will
take it!'
CHAPTER X.
BRIDGEFIELD EGREMONT.
'Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.'--TENNYSON.
'Mother, mother!' cried two young people, bursting open the door of the
pretty dining-room of Bridgefield Rectory, where the grown-up part of
the family were lingering over a late breakfast.
'Gently, gently, children,' said the dignified lady at the head of the
table. 'Don't disturb papa.'
'But we really have something to say, mother!' said the elder girl,
'and Fraulein said you ought to know. Uncle Alwyn is come home, and
Mrs. Egremont. And please, are we to call her Aunt Egremont, or Aunt
Alwyn, or what?'
The desired sensation was produced. Canon Egremont put down his
newspaper. The two elder sisters looked from one to the other in
unmitigated astonishment. Mark briefly made answer to the final
question, 'Aunt Alice,' and Mrs. Egremont said gravely, 'How did you
hear this, Rosalind? You know I always forbid you to gossip.'
'We didn't gossip, mother. We went up to the gardens to get some
mulberries for our half-holiday feast; and Ronaldson came out and told
us we must ask leave first, for the ladies were come. The Squire came
home at nine o'clock last night, and Mrs. Egremont and all, and only
sent a telegram two hours before to have the rooms got ready.'
'Has Uncle Alwyn gone and got himself married?' exclaimed one of the
young ladies, in utter amazement.
'Not just now, Blanche,' said her father. 'It is an old story now.
Your uncle married this lady, who had been governess to May and Mark,
many years ago, and from--circumstances in which she was not at all to
blame, he lost sight of her while he was abroad with old General
Egremont. Mark met her about a fortnight ago, and this has led to your
uncle's going in quest of her, though he has certainly been more sudden
in his proceedings than I expected.'
The mother here succeeded in sending Rosalind and Adela, with their
wondering eyes, off the scene, and she would much have liked to send
her two stepdaughters after them, but one-and-twenty and eighteen could
not so readily be ordered off as twelve and ten; and Mark, who had been
prohibited from uttering a word to his sisters, was eagerly examining
Margaret whether she remembered their Edda; but she had been only three
years old at the time of the adventures in the Isle of Wight, and
remembered nothing distinctly but the aspect of one of the sailors in
the yacht.
'Well,' said Mrs. Egremont, 'this has come very suddenly upon us. It
would have been more for her own dignity if she had held out a little
before coming so easily to terms, after the way in which she has been
treated.'
'When you see her, mother, you will understand,' said Mark.
'Shall we have to be intimate with her?' asked May.
'I desire that she should be treated as a relation,' said the Canon
decidedly. 'There is nothing against her character,' and, as his wife
was about to interrupt,--'nothing but an indiscretion to which she was
almost driven many years ago. She was cruelly treated, and I for one
am heartily sorry for having let myself be guided by others.'
Mrs. William Egremont felt somewhat complacent, for she knew he meant
Lady de Lyonnais, and there certainly had been no love lost between her
and her step-children's grandmother; but she was a sensible woman, and
forbore to speak, though there was a mental reservation that intimacy
would a good deal depend upon circumstances. Blanche cried out that it
was a perfect romance, and May gravely said, 'But is she a lady?'
'A perfect lady,' said Mark. 'Aunt Margaret says so.'
'One knows what a perfect lady means,' returned May.
'Come, May,' said Mrs. Egremont, 'do not let us begin with a prejudice.
By all accounts the poor thing has conducted herself with perfect
respectability all this time. What did you tell me, Mark? She has been
living with an aunt, keeping a school at Micklethwayte.'
'Not quite,' said Mark. 'She has been acting as a daily governess. She
seemed to be on friendly terms with the clerical folk. I came across
the name at a school feast, or something of the kind, which came off in
the Kirkaldys' park.'
'Oh, then, I know exactly the sort of person!' returned May, pursing up
her lips.
Mark laughed and said, 'I wonder whether it is too soon to go up and
see them. I wonder what my uncle thinks of his daughter.'
'What! You don't mean to say there is a daughter?' cried May.
'Even so. And exactly like you too, Miss May.'
'Then you are cut out, Mark!'
'You are cut out, I think, May. You'll have to give her all your Miss
Egremont cards.'
'No,' said the young lady; 'mother made me have my Christian name
printed. She said all but the daughters of the head of the family
ought to have it so. I'm glad of it.'
'How old is she?' asked Blanche.
'About a year younger than you.'
'I think it is very interesting,' said Blanche. 'How wonderful it must
all be to her! I will go up with you, Mark, as soon as I can get
ready.'
'You had better wait till later in the day, Blanche,' said the mother.
She knew the meeting was inevitable, but she preferred having it under
her own eye, if she could not reconnoitre.
She was a just and sensible woman, who felt reparation due to the
newly-discovered sister-in-law, and that harmony, or at least the
appearance of it, must be preserved; but she was also exclusive and
fastidious by nature, and did not look forward to the needful
intercourse with much satisfaction either on her own account or that of
her family.
She told Mark to say that she should come to see Mrs. Egremont after
luncheon, since he was determined to go at once, and moreover to drag
his father with him. Canon Egremont was a good and upright man,
according to his lights, which were rather those of a well-beneficed
clergyman of the first than of the last half of the century,
intensified perhaps that the passive voice was the strongest in him.
All the country knew that Canon Egremont could be relied on to give a
prudent, scholarly judgment, and to be kind and liberal, when once
induced to stir mind or body--but how to do that was the problem. He
had not been a young man at the time of his first marriage, and was
only a few years' junior to his brother, though he had the fresh,
wholesome look of a man who kept regular hours and lived much in the
air.
Alice knew him at once, and thought eighteen years had made little
change, as, at Nuttie's call to her, she looked from the window and saw
the handsome, dignified, gray-haired, close-shaven rosy face, and the
clerical garb unchanged in favour of long coats and high waistcoats.
The mother and daughter were exploring the house together. Mr.
Egremont had made it known that he preferred having his breakfast
alone, and not being disturbed in the forenoon. So the two ladies had
breakfasted together at nine, the earliest hour at which they could
prevail on the household to give them a meal. Indeed Nuttie had slept
till nearly that time, for between excitement and noise, her London
slumbers had been broken; and her endeavour to keep Micklethwayte hours
had resulted in a long, weary, hungry time in the sitting-room of the
hotel, with nothing to do, when the gaze from the window palled on her,
but to write to her aunt and Mary Nugent. The rest of the day had been
spent in driving about in a brougham with her mother shopping, and this
she could not but enjoy exceedingly, more than did the timid Mrs.
Egremont, who could not but feel herself weighted with responsibility;
and never having had to spend at the utmost more than ten pounds at a
time, felt bewildered at the cheques put into her hands, and then was
alarmed to find them melting away faster than she expected.
There was a very late dinner, after which Mr. Egremont, on the first
day, made his wife play bezique with him. She enjoyed it, as a tender
reminiscence of the yachting days; but Nuttie found herself de trop,
and was reduced to the book she had contrived to purchase on her
travels. The second night Mr. Egremont had picked up two friends, not
yet gone out of town, whose talk was of horses and of yachts, quite
incomprehensible to the ladies. They were very attentive to Mrs.
Egremont, whom they evidently admired, one so visibly as to call up a
blush; but they disregarded the daughter as a schoolgirl. Happily they
appeared no more after the dinner; but Nuttie's first exclamation of
astonished disgust was silenced at once by her mother with unusual
determination, 'You must not speak so of your father's friends.'
'Not when--'
'Not at all,' interrupted Mrs. Egremont.
The only sense of promotion to greatness that Ursula had yet enjoyed
was in these fine clothes, and the maid whom Lady Kirkaldy had
recommended, a grave and severe-looking person, of whom both stood
somewhat in awe. The arrival at Bridgefield had been too late for
anything to be taken in but a general impression of space and
dreariness, and the inevitable dinner of many courses, after which
Nuttie was so tired out that her mother sent her to bed.
Since the waking she had made some acquaintance with the house. There
was no show of domestics, no curtseying housekeeper to parade the new
mistress over the house; Mr. Egremont had told his wife that she must
fill up the establishment as she pleased, but that there was an
admirable cook downstairs, and he would not have her interfered
with--she suited his tastes as no one else did, and she must be left to
deal with the provisions and her own underlings. There was a stable
establishment, and a footman had been hired in town, but there was
besides only one untidy-looking housemaid, who began by giving warning;
and Alice and Nuttie had roamed about without meeting any one from the
big wainscotted dining-room with faded crimson curtains and family
portraits, the older grimy, the younger chalky, to the two
drawing-rooms, whose gilding and pale blue damask had been preserved by
pinafores of brown holland; the library, which looked and smelt as if
Mr. Egremont was in the habit of sitting there, and a big
billiard-room, all opening into a shivery-feeling hall, with Scagliola
columns and a few dirty statues between them; then upstairs to a
possible morning-room, looking out over a garden lawn, where mowing was
going on in haste, and suites of dreary shut-up fusty bedrooms.
Nuttie, who had notions of choosing her own bower, could not make up
her mind which looked the least inviting. It did not seem as if girls
could ever have laughed together, or children clattered up and down the
stairs. Mrs. Egremont begged her to keep possession for the present at
least of the chamber where the grim housemaid had chosen to put her,
and which had the advantage of being aired.
The two windows looked out over the park, and thence it was that while
Morris, the maid, was unpacking and putting away the new purchases, and
Nuttie was standing, scarcely realising that such pretty hats and
bonnets could be her very own, when her mother beheld the Canon and
Mark advancing up the drive. It was with a great start that she called
Ursula to come down directly with her, as no one would know where to
find them, hastily washing the hands that had picked up a sense of
dustiness during the exploration, and taking a comprehensive glance in
the cheval glass, which showed her some one she felt entirely
unfamiliar to her in a dainty summer costume of pale gray silk picked
out with a mysterious shade of pink. Ursula too thought Miss
Egremont's outer woman more like a Chelsea shepherdess than Nuttie's
true self, as she tripped along in her buckled shoes and the sea green
stockings that had been sent home with her skirt. With crimson cheeks
and a throbbing heart, Alice was only just at the foot of the stairs
when the newcomers had made their way in, and the kind Canon, ignoring
all that was past, held out his hands saying, 'Well, my dear, I am glad
to see you here,' kissing Mrs. Egremont on each cheek. 'And so this is
your daughter. How do you do, my dear--Ursula? Isn't that your name?'
And Ursula had again to submit to a kiss, much more savoury and kindly
than her father's, though very stubbly. And oh! her uncle's dress was
like that of no one she had ever seen except the rector of the old
church, the object of unlimited contempt to the adherents of St.
Ambrose's.
As to Mark, he only kissed his aunt, and shook hands with her, while
his father ran on with an unusual loquacity that was a proof of
nervousness in him.
'Mrs. Egremont--Jane, I mean--will be here after luncheon. She thought
you would like to get settled in first. How is Alwyn? Is he down yet?'
'I will see,' in a trembling voice.
'Oh no, never mind, Alwyn hates to be disturbed till he has made
himself up in the morning. My call is on you, you know. Where are you
sitting?'
'I don't quite know. In the drawing-room, I suppose.'
The Canon, knowing the house much better than she did, opened a door
into a third drawing-room she had not yet seen, a pretty little room,
fitted up with fluted silk, like a tent, somewhat faded but not much
the worse for that, and opening into a conservatory, which seemed to
have little in it but some veteran orange trees. Nuttie, however,
exclaimed with pleasure at the nicest room she had seen, and Mark began
unfastening the glass door that led into it. Meantime Alice, with
burning cheeks and liquid eyes, nerved her voice to say, 'Oh, sir--Mr.
Egremont--please forgive me! I know now how wrong I was.'
'Nonsense, my dear. Bygones are bygones. You were far more sinned
against than sinning, and have much to forgive me. There, my dear, we
will say no more about it, nor think of it either. I am only too
thankful that poor Alwyn should have some one to look after him.'
Alice, who had dreaded nothing more than the meeting with her former
master, was infinitely relieved and grateful for this kindness. She
had ejaculated, 'Oh, you are so good!' in the midst, and now at the
mention of her husband, she exclaimed, 'Oh! do you think he is ill? I
can't help being afraid he is, but he will not tell me, and does not
like to be asked.'
'Poor fellow, he has damaged his health a good deal,' was the answer.
'He had a sharp attack in the spring, but he has pretty well got over
it, and Raikes told me there was no reason for uneasiness, provided he
would be careful; and that will be a much easier matter now. I should
not wonder if we saw him with quite a renewed youth.'
So the Canon and Mrs. Egremont were getting on pretty well together,
but there was much more stiffness and less cordiality between the two
cousins, although Mark got the window open into the conservatory, and
showed Nuttie the way into the garden, advising her to ask Ronaldson,
the gardener, to fill the conservatory with flowers. The pavilion, as
this little room was called, always seemed to have more capacities for
being lived in than any other room in the house. It had been fitted up
when such things were the fashion for the shortlived bride of 'our
great uncle.'
'The colour must have been awful then,' said Mark, looking up at it,
'enough to set one's teeth on edge; but it has faded into something
quite orthodox--much better than could be manufactured for you.'
Mark had evidently some ideas of art, and was besides inclined to do
the honours to the stranger; but Nuttie was not going to encourage him
or anybody else to make up to her, while she had that look of Gerard
Godfrey's in her mind's eye. So she made small answer, and he felt
rebuffed, but supposed her shy, and wondered when he could go back to
her mother, who was so much more attractive.
Presently his father went off to storm the den of the master of the
house, and there was a pleasant quarter of an hour, during which the
three went out through the conservatory, and Mark showed the
ins-and-outs of the garden, found out Ronaldson, and congratulated him
on having some one at last to appreciate his flowers, begging him to
make the conservatory beautiful. And Mrs. Egremont's smile was so
effective that the Scot forthwith took out his knife and presented her
with the most precious of the roses within his reach.
Moreover Mark told the names and ages of all his sisters, whole and
half. He was the only son, except a little fellow in the nursery. And
he exhorted his aunt not to be afraid of his step-mother, who was a
most excellent person, he declared, but who never liked to see any one
afraid of her.
There was something a little alarming in this, but on the whole the
visit was very pleasant and encouraging to Mrs. Egremont; and she began
rejoicing over the kindness as soon as the Canon had summoned his son,
and they had gone away together.
'I am sure you must be delighted with your uncle and cousin, my dear,'
she said.
'He's not a bit my notion of a priest,' returned Nuttie. 'And I don't
believe he has any daily prayers!'
'He is old-fashioned, my dear.'
'One of the stodgey old clergymen in books,' observed Nuttie. 'I
didn't think there were any of that sort left.'
'Oh, my dear, pray don't take fancies into your head! He is a very,
very good man, and has been most kind to me, far more than I deserve,
and he is your uncle, Nuttie. I do so hope you will get on well with
your cousins.'
Here a gong, a perfectly unknown sound to Nuttie, made itself heard,
and rather astonished her by the concluding roar. The two ladies came
out into the hall as Mr. Egremont was crossing it. He made an
inclination of the head, and uttered a sort of good morning to his
daughter, but she was perfectly content to have no closer salutation.
Having a healthy noonday appetite, her chief wish was at the moment
that those beautiful little cutlets, arranged in a crown form, were not
so very tiny; or that, with two men-servants looking on, it were
possible to attain to a second help, but she had already learnt that
Gregorio would not hear her, and that any attempt to obtain more food
frightened her mother.
'So his reverence has been to see you,' observed Mr. Egremont.
'William, if you like it better.'
'Oh yes, and he was kindness itself!'
'And how did Master Mark look at finding I could dispense with his
assistance?'
'I think he is very glad.'
Mr. Egremont laughed. 'You are a simple woman, Edda! The pose of
virtuous hero was to have been full compensation for all that it might
cost him! And no doubt he looks for the reward of virtue likewise.'
Wherewith he looked full at Ursula, who, to her extreme vexation, felt
herself blushing up to the ears. She fidgeted on her chair, and began
a most untrue 'I'm sure--' for, indeed, the poor girl was sure of
nothing, but that her father's manner was most uncomfortable to her.
His laugh choked whatever she might have said, which perhaps was well,
and her mother's cheeks glowed as much as hers did.
'Did the Canoness--Jane, I mean--come up?' Mr. Egremont went on.
'Mrs. Egremont? No; she sent word that she is coming after luncheon.'
'Hm! Then I shall ride out and leave you to her majesty. Now look
you, Alice, you are to be very careful with William's wife. She is a
Condamine, you know, and thinks no end of herself, and your position
among the women-folk of the county depends more on how she takes you up
than anything else. But that doesn't mean that you are to let her give
herself airs and domineer over you. Remember you are the elder
brother's wife--Mrs. Egremont of Bridgefield Egremont--and she is
nothing but a parson's wife, and I won't have her meddling in my house.
Only don't you be absurd and offend her, for she can do more for or
against you in society than any one else--more's the pity!'
'Oh! won't you stay and help me receive her?' exclaimed the poor lady,
utterly confused by these contrary directions.
'Not I! I can't abide the woman! nor she me!' He added, after a
moment, 'You will do better without me.'
So he went out for his ride, and Ursula asked, 'Oh, mother! what will
you do?'
'The best I can, my dear. They are good people, and are sure to be
kinder than I deserve.'
Nuttie was learning that her mother would never so much as hear, far
less answer, a remark on her husband. It was beginning to make a sore
in the young heart that a barrier was thus rising, where there once had
been as perfect oneness and confidence as could exist between two
natures so dissimilar, though hitherto the unlikeness had never made
itself felt.
Mrs. Egremont turned the conversation to the establishing themselves in
the pavilion, whither she proceeded to import some fancy-work that she
had bought in London, and sent Nuttie to Ronaldson, who was arranging
calceolarias, begonias, and geraniums in the conservatory, to beg for
some cut-flowers for a great dusty-looking vase in the centre of the
table.
These were being arranged when Mrs. William Egremont and Miss Blanche
Egremont were ushered in, and there were the regular kindred embraces,
after which Alice and Nuttie were aware of a very handsome,
dignified-looking lady, well though simply dressed in what was
evidently her home costume, with a large shady hat and feather, her
whole air curiously fitting the imposing nickname of the Canoness.
Blanche was a slight, delicate-looking, rather pretty girl in a
lawn-tennis dress. The visitor took the part of treating the newcomers
as well-established relations.
'We would not inundate you all at once,' she said, 'but the children
are all very eager to see their cousin. I wish you would come down to
the Rectory with me. My ponies are at the door. I would drive you,
and Ursula might walk with Blanche.' And, as Alice hesitated for a
moment, considering how this might agree with the complicated
instructions that she had received, she added, 'Never mind Alwyn. I
saw him going off just before I came up, and he told William he was
going to look at some horses at Hale's, so he is disposed of for a good
many hours.'
Alice decided that her husband would probably wish her to comply, and
she rejoiced to turn her daughter in among the cousins, so hats,
gloves, and parasols were fetched, and the two mothers drove away with
the two sleek little toy ponies. By which it may be perceived that
Mrs. William Egremont's first impressions were favourable.
'It is the shortest way through the gardens,' said Blanche. 'Have you
been through them yet?'
'Mark walked about with us a little.'
'You'll improve them ever so much. There are great capabilities. Look,
you could have four tennis courts on this one lawn. We wanted to have
a garden-party up here last year, and father said we might, but mother
thought Uncle Alwyn might think it a liberty; but now you'll have some
delicious ones? Of course you play lawn-tennis?'
'I have seen it a very few times,' said Nuttie.
'Oh, we must teach you! Fancy living without lawn-tennis!' said
Blanche. 'I always wonder what people did without it. Only'--with an
effort at antiquarianism--'I believe they had croquet.'
'Aunt Ursula says there weren't garden-parties before croquet came in.'
'How dreadful, Ursula! Your name's Ursula, isn't it? Haven't you some
jolly little name to go by?'
'Nuttie.'
'Nuttie! That's scrumptious! I'll call you Nuttie, and you may call
me Pussycat.'
'That's not so nice as Blanche.'
'Mother won't have me called so when strangers are there, but you
aren't a stranger, you know. You must tell me all about yourself, and
how you came never to learn tennis!'
'I had something else to do,' said Nuttie, with dignity.
'Oh, you were in the schoolroom! I forgot. Poor little Nuts!'
'At school,' said Ursula.
'Ah, I remember! But you're out now, aren't you? I've been out since
this spring. Mother won't let us come out till we are eighteen, isn't
it horrid? And we were so worked there! I can tell you a finishing
governess is an awful institution! Poor little Rosie and Adey will be
in for one by and by. At present they've only got a jolly little
Fraulein that they can do anything they please with.'
'Oh, I wonder if she would tell me of some German books!'
'You don't mean that you want to read German!' and Blanche stood still,
and looked at her cousin in astonishment.
'Why, what else is the use of learning it?'
'Oh, I don't know. Every one does. If one went abroad or to court,
you know,' said Blanche vaguely; but Ursula had now a fresh subject of
interest; for, on emerging from the shrubbery, they came in sight of a
picturesque but not very architectural church, which had the smallest
proportion of wall and the largest of roof, and a pretty oriel-windowed
schoolhouse covered with clematis. Nuttie rushed into inquiries about
services and schools, and was aghast at hearing of mere Sundays and
saints' days.
'Oh no! father isn't a bit Ritualistic. I wish he was, it would be so
much prettier; and then he always advertises for curates of moderate
views, and they are so stupid. You never saw such a stick as we have
got now, Mr. Edwards; and his wife isn't a lady, I'm sure.'
Then as to schools, it was an absolute amazement to Nuttie to find that
the same plans were in force as had prevailed when her uncle had come
to the living and built that pretty house--nay, were kept up at his
sole expense, because he liked old-fashioned simplicity, and did not
choose to be worried with Government inspection.
'And,' said Blanche, 'every one says our girls work ever so much
better, and make nicer servants than those that are crammed with all
sorts of nonsense not fit for them.'
As to the Sunday school. Mother and the curate take care of that. I'm
sure, if you like it, you can have my class, for I always have a
headache there, and very often I can't go. Only May pegs away at it,
and she won't let me have the boys, who are the only jolly ones,
because she says I spoil them. But you must be my friend--mind,
Nuttie, not May's, for we are nearer the same age. When is your
birthday? You must put it down in my book!'
Nuttie, who had tolerable experience of making acquaintance with new
girls, was divided between a sense of Blanche's emptiness, and the
warmth excited by her friendliness, as well as of astonishment at all
she heard and saw.
Crossing the straggling, meandering village street, the cousins entered
the grounds of the Rectory, an irregular but well-kept building of the
soft stone of the country, all the garden front of it a deep verandah
that was kept open in summer, but closed with glass frames in the
winter--flower-beds lying before it, and beyond a lawn where the young
folk were playing at the inevitable lawn-tennis.
Margaret was not so pretty as Blanche, but had a more sensible face,
and her welcome to Ursula was civil but reserved. Rosalind and Adela
were bright little things, in quite a different style from their
half-sisters, much lighter in complexion and promising to be handsomer
women. They looked full of eagerness and curiosity at the new cousin,
whom Blanche set down on a bank, and proceeded to instruct in the
mysteries of the all-important game by comments and criticisms on the
players.
As soon as Mark and Adela had come out conquerors, Ursula was called on
to take her first lesson. May resigned her racket, saying she had
something to do, and walked off the field, and carrying off with her
Adela, who, as Blanche said, 'had a spine,' and was ordered to lie down
for an hour every afternoon. The cheerfulness with which she went
spoke well for the training of the family.
Nuttie was light-footed and dexterous handed, and accustomed to active
amusements, so that, under the tuition of her cousins, she became a
promising pupil, and thawed rapidly, even towards Mark.
She was in the midst of her game when the two mothers came out, for the
drive had been extended all round the park, under pretext of showing it
to its new mistress, but really to give the Canoness an opportunity of
judging of her in a tete-a-tete. Yet that sensible woman had asked no
alarming questions on the past, still less had offered any advice that
could seem like interference. She had only named localities, mentioned
neighbours, and made little communications about the ways of the place
such as might elicit remarks; and, as Alice's voice betrayed less and
less constraint, she ventured on speaking of their daughters, so as to
draw forth some account of how Ursula might have been educated.
And of this, Alice was ready and eager to talk, telling how clever and
how industrious Nuttie had always been, and how great an advantage Miss
Nugent's kindness was, and how she was hoping to go up for the
Cambridge examination; then, detecting some doubt in her companion's
manner, she said, 'It would be a great disappointment to her not to do
so now. Do you think she had better not?'
'I don't think she will find time to go on with the preparation! And,
to tell the truth, I don't think we are quite ripe for such things in
this county. We are rather backward, and Ursula, coming in fresh upon
us, might find it a disadvantage to be thought much cleverer than other
people.'
'Ah! I was not quite sure whether her father would like it.'
'I do not think he would. I am sure that if my little Rose were to
take it into her head, I should have hard work to get her father's
consent, though no doubt the world will have progressed by the time she
is old enough.'
'That settles it,' said Alice. 'Thank you, Mrs. Egremont. I own,' she
added presently, 'that I do somewhat regret that it cannot be, for I
thought that a motive for keeping up her studies would be helpful to my
child;--I do not mean for the sake of the studies, but of the--the
balance in all this change and novelty.'
'You are quite right, I have felt it myself,' said her sister-in-law.
'Perhaps something could be done by essay societies. May belongs to
one, and if Ursula is an intellectual girl, perhaps you could keep her
up to some regular employment in the morning. I succeeded in doing so
when May came out, but I can accomplish nothing regular but music with
Blanche; and an hour's steady practice a day is better than nothing.'
The drive was on the whole a success, and so was the tea-drinking in
the verandah, where Aunt Alice and little five-years old Basil became
fast friends and mutual admirers; the Canon strolled out and was
installed in the big, cushioned basket-chair that crackled under his
weight; Blanche recounted Nuttie's successes, and her own tennis
engagements for the week; Mark lay on a rug and teased her, and her
dachshund; Nuttie listened to the family chatter as if it were a play,
and May dispensed the cups, and looked grave and severe.
'Well?' said the Canon anxiously, when Mark, Blanche, and little Basil
had insisted on escorting the guests home, and he and his wife were for
a few minutes tete-a-tete.
'It might have been much worse,' said the lady. 'She is a good little
innocent thing, and has more good sense than I expected. Governessy,
that's all, but she will shake out of that.'
'Of course she will. It's the best thing imaginable for Alwyn!'
His wife kept back the words, 'A hundred times too good for Alwyn!'
CHAPTER XI.
LAWN-TENNIS.
'Madam, the guests are come, supper served up,
My young lady asked for!'--Romeo and Juliet.
A garden-party, Mrs. William Egremont decided, would be the best mode
of testifying her approbation of her sister-in-law, and introducing the
newcomers to the neighbourhood. So the invitations were sent forth for
an early day of the coming week.
From how many points of view was Mrs. William Egremont's garden-party
regarded, and how different! There was Basil, to whom it meant wearing
his velvet suit and eating as many ices as mother would allow. To
Blanche, it was an occasion for triumph on the tennis ground for
herself, and for hopes for her pupil; and Ursula herself looked forward
to it and practised for it like a knight for his first encounter in the
lists, her sole care being to distinguish herself with her racket. To
her mother, it was an ordeal, where she trusted not to be a
mortification to her husband and his family; while to the hostess, it
was a not unwelcome occasion of exercising honest diplomacy and tact,
not without a sense of magnanimity. To May, it was a bore to be
endured with dutiful philosophy; to her good-natured father an occasion
for hospitality, where he trusted that his brother would appear, and
appear to advantage, and was ready even to bribe him thereto with that
wonderful claret that Alwyn had always envied, and declared to be
wasted on a parson. And Mark, perhaps he viewed the occasion with
different eyes from any one else. At any rate, even the denizens of
Bridgefield mustered there with as many minds as Scott ascribes to the
combatants of Bannockburn, and there were probably as many other
circles of feeling more or less intersecting one another among the more
distant guests, most of them, however, with the same feeling of
curiosity as to what this newly-discovered wife and daughter of Alwyn
Egremont might be like.
Externally, in her rich black silk, trimmed with point lace, and her
little straw-coloured bonnet with its tuft of feathery grass and blue
cornflower, she was so charming that her daughter danced round her,
crying, 'O mammy, mammy, if they could but see you at home'--then, at a
look: 'Well then--Aunt Ursel, and Miss Mary, and Mr. Dutton!'
Nuttie was very much pleased with her own pretty tennis dress; but she
had no personal vanity for herself, only for her mother. The knowledge
that she was no beauty was no grievance to her youthful spirits; but
when her father surveyed them in the hall, she looked for his verdict
for her mother as if their relations were reversed.
'Ha! Well, you certainly are a pretty creature, Edda,' he said
graciously. 'You'll pass muster! You want nothing but style. And,
hang it! you'll do just as well without it, if the Canoness will only
do you justice. Faces like that weren't given for nothing.'
She blushed incarnadine and accepted one of his kisses with a pleasure,
at which Nuttie wondered, her motherly affection prompting her to
murmur in his ear--
'And Ursula?'
'She'll not cut you out; but she is Egremont enough to do very fairly.
Going already?'
'If you would come with us,' she said wistfully, to the horror of
Nuttie, who was burning to be at the beginning of all the matches.
'I? oh no! I promised old Will to look in, but that won't be till late
in the day, or I shall have to go handing all the dowagers into the
dining-room to tea.'
'Then I think we had better go on. They asked us to come early, so as
to see people arrive and know who they are.'
_They_ was a useful pronoun to Alice, who felt it a liberty to call her
grand-looking sister-in-law, Jane--was too well-bred to term her Mrs.
William.
The mother and daughter crossed the gardens, Nuttie chattering all the
way about the tennis tactics she had picked up from Blanche, while her
mother answered her somewhat mechanically, wondering, as her eye fell
on the square squat gray church tower, what had become of the earnest
devotion to church work and intellectual pursuits that used to
characterise the girl. True, always both mother and daughter had
hitherto kept up their church-going, and even their Sunday-school
habits, nor had any hindrance come in their way, Mr. Egremont
apparently acquiescing in what he never shared. But these things
seemed, in Ursula's mind, to have sunk out of the proportion they held
at Bridgefield, no longer to be the spirit of a life, but mere Sunday
duties and occupations.
Was this wicked world getting a hold of the poor child? Which was
duty? which was the world? This was the thought that perplexed Alice,
too simple as yet to perceive that Ursula's former absorption had been
in the interests that surrounded her and her companions, exactly as
they were at present, and that the real being had yet to work itself
out.
For herself, Alice did not think at all. She was rejoicing in her
restored husband, and his evident affection. Her duty towards him was
in her eyes plain. She saw, of course, that he had no religion, but
she accepted the fact like that of bad weather; she loved him, and she
loved her daughter; she said her prayers with all her heart for them,
she hoped, and she did her best, without trying to go below the surface.
There was the Rectory gate wide open. There was Basil rushing up to
greet his dear Aunt Alice, there were all the windows and doors of the
Rectory open, and the nearer slopes covered with chairs and seats of
all dimensions, some under trees, some umbelliferous, and glowing
Afghan rugs, or spotted skins spread for those who preferred the
ground. There was Blanche flitting about wild with excitement, and
pouncing on Nuttie to admire her outfit, and reiterate instructions;
there were the two younger girls altering the position of chairs
according to their mother's directions; there were actually two
guests--not very alarming ones, only the curate and his wife, both
rather gaunt, bony people. He was button-holing the Canon, and she was
trying to do the same by the Canoness about some parish casualty. The
Canon hoped to escape in the welcome to his sister-in-law and niece,
but he was immediately secured again, while his wife found it requisite
to hurry off else where, leaving Mrs. Edwards to tell her story to Mrs.
Egremont. In point of fact, Alice really liked the good lady, was
quite at ease with her, and felt parish concerns a natural element, so
that she gave full heed and attention to the cruelty of Mrs. Parkins'
depriving Betsy Butter (with an old father and mother to support) of
her family washing, on the ground of a missing pocket handkerchief, the
which Mrs. Edwards believed to have been abstracted by the favourite
pickle of Miss Blanche's class, if only a confession could be elicited
from him when undefended by his furious mother. Mrs. Egremont was
listening with actual interest and sympathy to the history of Betsy
Butter's struggles, and was inquiring the way to her cottage, when she
was called off to be introduced to the arrivals who were beginning to
flood the lawn. She presently saw May, who had just come down, walking
up and down with Mrs. Edwards, evidently hearing the story of the
handkerchief. She thought it had been Nuttie for a moment. There was
a general resemblance between the cousins that made them be mistaken
for one another several times in the course of the day, since their
dresses, though not alike, were of the same make and style.
Thus it was that as Nuttie was sitting on the grass in earnest
contemplation of Blanche's play, a hand was familiarly laid on her
shoulder, and a voice said, 'I haven't seen that horrid girl yet!'
After so many introductions, Nuttie had little idea whom she knew, or
whom she did not know. She looked up and saw a small person in light
blue, with the delicate features, transparent skin, and blue eyes that
accompany yellow hair, with an indescribable glitter of mirth and
joyousness about the whole creature, as if she were part and parcel of
the sunbeam in which she stood.
'What horrid girl?' said Nuttie.
'The interloper, the newly-discovered savage, come to upset--Ah!'--with
a little shriek--'It isn't May! I beg your pardon.'
'I'm May's cousin,' said Nuttie, 'Ursula Egremont.'
'Oh, oh!' and therewith the fact burst on both girls at once. They
stood still a moment in dismay, then the stranger went into a fit of
laughter. 'Oh, I beg your pardon! I can't help it! It is so funny!'
Nuttie was almost infected, though somewhat hurt. 'Who said I was
horrid?' she asked.
'Nobody! Nobody but me--Annaple Ruthven--and they'll all tell you, May
and all, that I'm always putting my foot in it. And I never meant that
you were horrid--you yourself--you know--only--'
'Only nobody wanted us here,' said Nuttie; 'but we could not help it.'
'Of course not. It was shocking, just my way. Please forgive me!' and
she looked most pleading. Nuttie held out her hand with something
about 'No one could mind;' and therewith Annaple cried, 'Oh, if you
don't mind, we can have our laugh out!' and the rippling laughter did
set Nuttie off at once. The peal was not over when May herself was
upon them demanding what was the joke.
'Oh, there she is! The real May! Why,' said Annaple, kissing her,
'only think here I've been and gone and thought this was you, and
inquired about--What was it?--the awful monster--the chimera dire--that
Mark had routed up--'
'No; you didn't say that,' said Nuttie, half provoked.
'Never mind what I said. Don't repeat it. I only wish myself and
every one else to forget it. Now it is swept to the winds by a good
wholesome giggling. But what business have you two to be so
inconveniently alike? You are as bad as the twin Leslies!'
'There's an old foremother on the staircase in white satin who left her
looks to us both,' said May.
'You'll have to wear badges,' said Annaple. 'You know the Leslies were
so troublesome that one had to be shipped off to the East Indies and
the other to the West.'
'They married, that's all,' said May, seeing Nuttie looking mystified;
and at that moment, Blanche's side coming out victorious, Nuttie
descended into the arena to congratulate and be asked to form part of
the next set.
'Well, that was a scrape!' said Annaple; 'but she wasn't bad about it!
I must do something to make up for it somehow--get Janet to invite her,
but really Janet is in such a state of mind that I am mildness itself
compared with her. She would not have come, only John was curious, and
declared he should go whether we did or not.'
'Ah!' said May, 'I saw him, like the rest of mankind, at madame's feet.'
'Oh! is she of that sort?'
'No,' said May, 'not at all. Mother and father too both think she is
good to the backbone; but she is very pretty, with just the inane soft
sweetness that men rave about--innocent really. All accounts of her
are excellent, and she has nice parish ways, and will be as helpful as
Uncle Alwyn will let her.'
'But she couldn't always have been nice?'
'Well, I verily believe it was all Uncle Alwyn's and grandmamma's
fault. I know Mark thinks so.'
'When the women of a family acquit a woman it goes for something,' said
Annaple. 'That's not original, my dear, I heard old Lady Grosmede say
so to Janet when she was deliberating over the invitation, "For a good
deal more than Mr. Mark's, at any rate.'"
'Mark is very fond of her--the mother, I mean. He says when he was a
little fellow her loss was worse to him than even our mother's.'
'Do you remember the catastrophe?'
'Not a bit. Only when she is petting Basil it strikes me that I have
heard the tones before. I only remember the time of misery under the
crosspatches grandmamma got for us.'
'Well, it was a splendid cutting of his own throat in Mark,' said
Annaple, 'so it ought to turn out well.'
'I don't know how it is to turn out for Mark,' answered May. 'Oh, here
he comes!'
'Will you come into this set, Annaple?' he asked. 'They want another
couple,' and, as she accepted, 'How do you get on with May's double?'
'I pity May for having such a double.'
'Don't encourage her by misplaced pity.'
'It's abominable altogether! I want to fly at somebody!'
'Exhaust your feelings on your racket, and reflect that you see a man
released from bondage.'
'Is that philosophy or high-faluting?' she said in a teasing tone as
the game began.
The Ruthvens had very blue blood in their veins, but as there were nine
of the present generation, they possessed little beyond their long
pedigree; even the head of the family, Lord Ronnisglen, being forced to
live as a soldier, leaving his castle to grouse shooters. His seven
brothers had fared mostly in distant lands as they could, and his
mother had found a home, together with her youngest child, at Lescombe,
where her eldest was the wife of Sir John Delmar. Lady Ronnisglen was
an invalid, confined to the house, and Lady Delmar had daughters fast
treading on the heels of Annabella, so christened, but always called
Annaple after the old Scottish queens, her ancestors. She had been May
Egremont's chief friend ever since her importation at twelve years old,
and the intimacy had been promoted by her mother and sister. Indeed,
the neighbourhood had looked on with some amusement at the competition
ascribed to Lady Delmar and to the wealthy parvenu, Mrs. West, for the
heir-presumptive of Bridgefield Egremont.
Annaple's lightness and dexterity rendered her the best of the lady
tennis-players, and the less practised Ursula found herself defeated in
the match, in spite of a partner whose play was superior to Mark's, and
with whom she shyly walked off to eat ices.
'I see,' said Annaple, 'it is a country-town edition of May. I shan't
blunder between them again.'
'She will polish,' said Mark, 'but she is not equal to her mother.'
'Whom I have not seen yet. Ah, there's Mr. Egremont! Why, he looks
quite renovated!'
'Well he may be!'
'But Mark, not to hurt your feelings, he must have behaved atrociously.'
'I'm not going to deny it,' said Mark.
'I always did think he looked like it,' said Annaple.
'When have you seen him before?'
'Only once, but it was my admirable sagacity, you understand? I always
see all the villains in books just on his model. Oh, but who's that?
How very pretty! You don't mean it is she! Well, she might be the
heroine of anything!'
'Isn't she lovely?'
'And has she been keeping school like Patience on a monument all these
years? It doesn't seem to have much damaged her damask cheek!'
'It was only daily governessing. She looks much better than when I
first saw her; and as to the damask--why, that's deepened by the
introduction to old Lady Grosmede that is impending.'
'She is being walked up to the old Spanish duck with the red rag round
her leg to receive her fiat. What a thing it is to be a bearded
Dowager, and rule one's neighbourhood!'
'I think she approves. She has made room for her by her side. Is she
going to catechise her?'
Annaple made an absurd sound of mingled pity and disgust.
'Not that she--my aunt, I mean--need be afraid. The shame is all on
the other side.'
'And I think Lady Grosmede has too much sense to think the worse of her
for having worked for herself,' added Annaple. 'If it was not for
mother I should long to begin!'
'You? It's a longing well known to me!--but you!'
'Exactly! As the Irishman felt blue moulded for want of a bating, so
do I feel fagged out for want of an honest day's work.'
'If one only knew what to turn to,' said Mark so wearily that Annaple
exclaimed,
'We seem to be in the frozen-out state of mind, and might walk up and
down singing "I've got no work to do,"'--to which she gave the well
known intonation.
'Too true,' said he, joining in the hum.
'But I thought you were by way of reading law.'
'One must see more than only "by way of" in these days to do any good.'
At that moment Basil ran up with a message that Lady Delmar was ready
to go home.
They walked slowly up the terrace and Mark paused as they came near
Mrs. Egremont to say, 'Aunt Alice, here is Miss Ruthven, May's great
friend.'
Annaple met a pleasant smile, and they shook hands, exchanging an
observation or two, while a little way off Lady Grosmede was nodding
her strong old face at Lady Delmar, and saying, 'Tell your mother I'll
soon come and see her, my dear. That's a nice little innocent body,
lady-like, and thoroughly presentable. Alwyn Egremont might have done
worse.'
'The only wonder is he did not!' returned Lady Delmar. 'They make the
best of it here.'
'Very good taste of them. But, now I've seen her, I don't believe
there's anything behind. Very hard upon the poor young man, though it
was all his doing, his mother says. I congratulate you that it had not
gone any farther in that quarter.'
'Oh, dear no! Never dreamt of it. She is May's friend, that's all.'
Nevertheless Lady Delmar made a second descent in person to hurry
Annaple away.
'Isn't it disgusting?' said May, catching her stepmother's smile.
'You will see a good deal more of the same kind,' said the Canoness; 'I
am afraid more mortification is in store for Mark than he guesses. I
wish that girl were more like her mother.'
'Mamma! a girl brought up among umbrella-makers! Just fancy! Why, she
has just nothing in her!'
'Don't set Mark against her, May; he might do worse.'
'Her head is a mere tennis ball,' said May, drawing her own higher than
ever, 'and no one would know her from a shop girl.'
'She is young enough,' said the Canoness. 'Don't class me with Lady
Delmar, May--I only say--if--and that I don't think you realise the
change Mark will feel.'
'Better so than sell himself,' muttered May.
CHAPTER XII.
OUT OF WORK.
'I'm seeking the fruit that's nae growing.'--Ballad.
Society recognised the newcomers. Lady Grosmede's card appeared the
next day, and was followed by showers of others, and everybody asked
everybody 'Have you seen Mrs. Egremont?'
It was well for Alice's happiness even at home that she was a success.
When Alwyn Egremont had been lashed by his nephew's indignant integrity
into tardy recognition of the wife of his youth, it had been as if he
had been forced to pick up a flower which he had thrown away. He had
considerable doubts whether it would answer. First, he reconnoitred,
intending, if he found a homely or faded being, to pension her off; but
this had been prevented by her undeniable beauty and grace, bringing up
a rush of such tender associations as he was capable of. Yet even
then, her position depended on the impression she might make on those
about him, on her own power of self-assertion, and on her contributing
to his comfort or pleasure.
Of self-assertion Alice had none, only a gentle dignity in her
simplicity, and she was so absolutely devoted to him that he found his
house far more pleasant and agreeable for her presence and unfailing
attention, though still his estimation of her was influenced more than
he owned to himself by that of the world in general, and the Rectory in
particular.
And the Rectory did its part well. The Canon was not only charmed with
the gentle lady, but felt an atonement due to her; and his wife,
without ever breathing into any ears, save his, the mysterious
adjective 'governessy,' praised her right and left, confiding to all
inquirers the romance of the burnt yacht, the lost bride, and the happy
meeting under Lady Kirkaldy's auspices, with the perfect respectability
of the intermediate career, while such was the universal esteem for,
and trust in herself and the Canon, that she was fully believed; and
people only whispered that probably Alwyn Egremont had been excused for
the desertion more than he deserved.
The subject of all this gossip troubled herself about it infinitely
less than did the good Canoness. In effect she did not know enough of
the world to think about it at all. Her cares were of a different
order, chiefly caused by tenderness of conscience, and solicitude to
keep the peace between the two beings whom she best loved.
Two things were in her favour in this latter respect, one that they saw
very little of each other, since Mr. Egremont seldom emerged from his
own rooms till after luncheon; and the other that Ursula's brains ran
to little but lawn-tennis for the ensuing weeks. To hold a champion's
place at the tournaments, neck and neck with her cousin Blanche, and
defeat Miss Ruthven, and that veteran player, Miss Basset, was her
foremost ambition, and the two cousins would have practised morning,
noon, and night if their mothers would have let them. There need have
been no fear of Ursula's rebellion about the Cambridge honours, she
never seemed even to think of them, and would have had no time in the
more important competition of rackets. Indeed, it was almost treated as
a hardship that the pair were forbidden to rush together before twelve
o'clock, and that Ursula's mother insisted on rational home occupation
until that time, setting the example herself by letter-writing,
needlework, and sharing in the music which was a penance to the girl,
only enforced by that strong sense of protecting affection which
forbade rebellion. But Alice could hope that their performances were
pleasant to her husband in the evening, if only to sleep by, and so she
persisted in preparing for them.
Nuttie's rage for tennis, and apparent forgetfulness of her old life
and aspirations, might be disappointing, but it conduced to make her
mother's task easier than if she had been her original, critical, and
protesting self. In the new and brilliant surroundings she troubled
herself much less than could have been expected at the failure of her
father, his house, nay, and of the parish itself, in coming up to the
St. Ambrose standard. How much was owing to mere novelty and
intoxication, how much to a yet unanalysed disappointment, how much to
May's having thrown her upon the more frivolous Blanche, could not be
guessed. The effect was unsatisfactory to her mother, but a certain
relief, for Nuttie's aid would have been only mischievous in the
household difficulties that weighed on the anxious conscience. Good
servants would not stay at Bridgefield Hall for unexplained causes,
which their mistress believed to be connected with Gregorio, or with
the treasure of a cook-housekeeper over whom she was forbidden to
exercise any authority, and who therefore entirely neglected all meals
which the master did not share with the ladies. Fortunately, Mr.
Egremont came in one day at their luncheon and found nothing there but
semi-raw beef, upon which there was an explosion; and being by this
time convinced that his wife both would and could minister to his
comfort, her dominion was established in the female department, though,
as long as Gregorio continued paramount with his master, and the
stables remained in their former state, it was impossible to bring
matters up to the decorous standard of the Rectory, and if ever his
mistress gave an order he did not approve, Gregorio overruled it as her
ignorance. In fact, he treated both the ladies with a contemptuous
sort of civility. Meantime Mr. Egremont was generally caressing and
admiring in his ways towards his wife, with only occasional bursts of
temper when anything annoyed him. He was proud of her, gave her a
liberal allowance, and only refused to be troubled; and she was really
happy in his affection, for which she felt a gratitude only too humble
in the eyes of her daughter.
They had parties. Blanche's ambition of tennis courts all over the
lawn was fulfilled, and sundry dinners, which were crosses to Alice,
who had neither faculty nor training for a leader and hostess, suffered
much from the menu, more from the pairing of her guests, more again in
catching her chief lady's eye after, and most of all from her husband's
scowls and subsequent growls and their consequence, for Ursula broke
out, 'It is not fair to blame my mother. How should she have all the
savoir-faire, or what you may call it, of Aunt Jane, when she has had
no practice?'
'Perhaps, Mrs. Egremont,' he retorted with extreme suavity, 'you will
also attend to your daughter's manners.' Otherwise he took little
notice of Ursula, viewing her perhaps, as did the neighbourhood, as a
poor imitation of May, without her style, or it may be with a sense
that her tongue might become inconvenient if not repressed. When he
began to collect sporting guests of his own calibre in the shooting
season, the Canoness quietly advised her sister-in-law to regard them
as gentlemen's parties, and send Ursula down to spend the evening with
her cousins; and to this no objection was made. Mr. Egremont wanted
his beautiful wife at the head of his table, and his guests never
comported themselves unsuitably before her; but nobody wanted the
unformed girl, and she and Blanche were always happy together.
The chief restraint was when Mark was at home, and that was not always.
He made sundry visits and expeditions, and was altogether in an
uncomfortable condition of reaction and perplexity as to his future.
He was a good and conscientious fellow, and had never been actually
idle, but had taken education and life with the easiness of the
prospective heir to a large property; and though he had acquitted
himself creditably, it was with no view of making his powers
marketable. Though he had been entered at the Temple, it was chiefly
in order to occupy himself respectably, and to have a nominal
profession, so as not to be wholly dependent on his uncle; and all that
he had acquired was the conviction that it would be half a lifetime, if
not a whole one, before the law would afford him a maintenance.
His father wished him to take Holy Orders with a view to the reversion
of the Rectory, but Mark's estimate of clerical duty and vocation was
just such as to make him shrink from them. He was three-and-twenty, an
awkward age for all those examinations that stand as lions in the face
of youth intended for almost any sort of service, and seldom or never
to be gagged by interest. For one indeed, he went up and failed, and
in such a manner as to convince him that cramming had more to do than
general culture with success.
He had a certain consciousness that most people thought another way
open to him, most decidedly his gentle aunt, and perhaps even his
parents. The matter came prominently before him one day at luncheon,
when, some parochial affairs being on hand and Mr. Egremont out for the
day, Alice, whose free forenoons enabled her to take a share in church
and parish affairs, was there, as well as the curate and his wife.
These good people were in great commotion about a wedding about to take
place between a young farmer and his delicate first cousin, the only
survivor of a consumptive family.
'"Proputty, proputty,"' quoted the Canon. 'James Johnson is what they
call a warm man.'
'It is a sin and a shame,' said Mrs. Edwards. 'What can they expect?
George Johnson looks strong enough now, but they tell me his brother
undoubtedly died of decline, though they called it inflammation; but
there was tubercular disease.'
'I am afraid it is strong in the family,' said the Canoness, 'they all
have those clear complexions; but I do believe George is heartily in
love with poor little Emily.'
'First cousins ought to be in the table of degrees,' said Mr. Edwards.
'It is always a question whether the multiplying of prohibitions
without absolute necessity is expedient,' said the Canon.
He spoke quite dispassionately, but the excellent couple were not
remarkable for tact. Mrs. Edwards gave her husband such a glance of
warning and consternation as violently inclined May to laugh, and he
obediently and hesitatingly began, 'Oh yes, sir, I beg your pardon. Of
course there may be instances,' thereby bringing an intense glow of
carnation into Alice's cheeks, while the Canon, ready for the occasion,
replied, 'And George Johnson considers himself one of them. He will
repair the old moat house, I suppose.'
And his wife, though she would rather have beaten Mrs. Edwards,
demanded how many blankets would be wanted that winter.
The effect of this little episode was that Mark announced to his father
that evening his strong desire to emigrate, an intention which the
Canon combated with all his might. He was apparently a hale and hearty
man, but he had had one or two attacks of illness that made him doubt
whether he would be long-lived; and not only could he not bear to have
his eldest son out of reach, but he dreaded leaving his family to such
a head as his brother. Mark scarcely thought the reasons valid,
considering the rapidity of communication with Canada, but it was not
possible to withstand the entreaties of a father with tears in his
eyes; and though he could not bring himself to consent to preparing to
be his father's curate, he promised to do nothing that would remove him
to another quarter of the world, and in two or three days more, started
for Monks Horton to see what advice his uncle and aunt there could give
him; indeed, Lord Kirkaldy's influence was reckoned on by his family
almost as a sure card in the diplomatic line.
The Kirkaldys were very fond of Mark, and had an odd feeling of being
accountable for the discovery which had changed his prospects. They
would have done anything for him that they could, but all Lord
Kirkaldy's interest was at the foreign office, or with his
fellow-diplomates, and here he soon found an insuperable bar. Mark's
education had stood still from the time of Miss Headworth's flight till
his father's second marriage, his energies having been solely devoted
to struggles with the grim varieties of governess purveyed by his
grandmother, and he had thus missed all chance of foundation of foreign
languages, and when once at school, he had shared in the average
English boy's contempt and aversion for the French masters who
outscreamed a whole class.
In consequence, Lord Kirkaldy, an accurate and elegant scholar in
European tongues, besides speaking them with the cosmopolitan ease of
an ambassador's son, was horrified, not only at Mark's pronunciation,
but at his attempts at letter-writing and translation, made with all
the good will in the world, but fit for nothing but to furnish the good
stories which the kind uncle refrained from telling any one but his
wife. Unluckily, too, a Piedmontese family, some of them not strong in
their English, were on a visit at Monks Horton, and the dialect in
which the old marquis and Mark tried at times to interchange ideas
about pheasants was something fearful. And as in the course of a week
Mark showed no signs of improvement in vernacular French or Italian,
Lord Kirkaldy's conscience would let him give no other advice than that
his nephew should stick to English law living still on the allowance
his father gave him, and hoping for one of the chance appointments open
to an English barrister of good family and fair ability.
Of course Mark had gone at once to carry tidings of 'Aunt Alice,' as he
scrupulously called her, to old Miss Headworth, whom his aunt had
continued to visit at intervals. That good lady had given up her
boarders, having realised enough to provide for her own old age, and
she had joined forces with the Nugents, Mary being very thankful to
have her companionship for Mrs. Nugent, who was growing too blind and
feeble to be satisfactorily left alone all day.
Mark delighted the old ladies by his visits and accounts of their
darling's success and popularity, which he could paint so brightly that
they could not help exulting, even though there might be secret
misgivings as to the endurance of these palmy days. He was a great
hero in their eyes, and they had too good taste to oppress him with
their admiration, so that he really was more at ease in their little
drawing-room than anywhere at Monks Horton, whither the Italians could
penetrate. The marchesino spoke English very well, but that was all
the worse for Mark, since it gave such a sense of inferiority. He was
an intelligent man too, bent on being acquainted with English
industries of all kinds; and thus it was that a party was organised to
see the umbrella factory. It was conducted by Mr. Dutton, with whom
Lord Kirkaldy, between charities and public business, had become
acquainted.
To Mark's secret shame, this manufacturer spoke French perfectly, and
even got into such a lively conversation with the old marquis about
Cavour, that Lord Kirkaldy begged him to come to dinner and continue
it. They were all surprised, not only by the details of the
manufacture and the multitude of artizans, male and female, whom it
employed, but by the number of warehouse-clerks whom they found at
work, and who, it appeared, were in correspondence with agencies and
depots in London and all the principal towns in the kingdom. Gerard
Godfrey was there,--casting looks askance at the young Egremont, whom
he regarded as a kind of robber.
The marchesino asked from what class these young men were taken, and
Mr. Dutton made reply that most of them were sons of professional men.
If they could obtain a small capital and take shares in the business
they were encouraged to do so, and rose to the headship of the
agencies, obtaining a fair income.
'And you don't exact an examination,' said Mark.
'Except in handwriting and book-keeping,' said Mr. Dutton.
'Poor Mark, you look for your bugbear everywhere!' sighed his aunt.
They went over the Institute, coffee-rooms, eating-rooms, and
lodging-houses, by which the umbrella firm strove to keep their hands
respectable and contented, and were highly pleased with all, most
especially with Mr. Dutton, who, though his name did not come
prominently forward, had been the prime mover and contriver of all
these things, and might have been a wealthier man if he had not
undertaken expenses which he could not charge upon the company.
Gerard Godfrey came in to Mrs. Nugent's that evening in the lowest
spirits. He had a sister married to a curate in the same county with
Bridgefield, and she had sent him a local paper which 'understood that
a marriage was arranged between Mark de Lyonnais Egremont, Esquire, and
Ursula, daughter of Alwyn Piercefield Egremont, Esquire, of Bridgefield
Egremont,' and he could not help coming to display it to Miss Headworth
in all its impertinence and prematurity.
'Indeed he said nothing to me about it,' said Miss Headworth, 'and I
think he would if it had been true.'
'No doubt he intends it, and is trying to recommend himself through
you,' said Gerard.
'I should not think he needed that,' returned Aunt Ursel, 'though I
should be very glad, I am sure. He is an excellent young man, and it
is quite the obvious thing.'
'People don't always do the obvious thing,' put in Mary Nugent.
'Certainly it didn't look like it,' said Miss Headworth,' when he told
us about the great annual Hunt Ball at Redcastle that Nuttie and his
sister Blanche are to come out at; he said he did not intend to go home
for it if he could help it.'
'Struggling against fate,' said Miss Nugent.
'The puppy!' burst out Gerard.
Having ascertained the particulars of this same Hunt Ball, Gerard
became possessed with a vehement desire to visit his sister, and so
earnestly solicited a few days' leave of absence that it was granted to
him. 'Poor boy, he may settle down when he has ascertained what an ass
he is,' said Mr. Dutton.
'Ah!' said Mary. 'I thought he was very bad when I saw he had not
changed the green markers for St. Luke's Day.'
CHAPTER XIII.
DETRIMENTALS.
'That tongue of yours at times wags more than charity allows;
And if you're strong, be merciful, great woman of three cows.'
--J. O. MANGAN.
Nine miles was a severe distance through country lanes in November to
go to a ball; but the Redcastle Hunt Ball was the ball of the year,
uniting all the county magnates; and young ladies were hardly reckoned
as 'come out' till they had appeared there. Mrs. Egremont's position
would hardly be established till she had been presented to the
notabilities who lived beyond calling intercourse; and her husband
prepared himself to be victimised with an amount of grumbling that was
intended to impress her with the magnitude of the sacrifice, but which
only made her offer to forego the gaiety, and be told that she would
never have any common sense.
So their carriage led the way, and was followed by the Rectory
waggonette containing the ladies and Mark, who had been decisively
summoned home, since his stepmother disliked public balls without a
gentleman in attendance, and his father was not to be detached from his
fireside.
And in a group near the door, got up as elaborately as his powers could
accomplish, stood Gerard Godfrey. He knew nobody there except a family
in his sister's parish, who had good-naturedly given him a seat in
their fly, and having fulfilled his duty by asking the daughter to
dance, he had nothing to disturb him in watching for the cynosure whose
attraction had led him into these unknown regions, and, as he
remembered with a qualm, on the eve of St. Britius. However, with such
a purpose, one might surely grant oneself a dispensation from the vigil
of a black letter saint.
There at length he beheld the entrance. There was the ogre himself,
high bred, almost handsome, as long
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