Practical heart, p.13
Practical Heart, page 13
Gillian nodded distractedly.
“Do you need a a coach?” he inquired. “I could arrange for one.”
“No,” she said, thoughtfully. “Do you know, it occurs to me…we shall very likely be obliged to stay the night at Cobham. I think I must leave a note for the Viscount, explaining things a little.”
“A very little,” Miles suggested, his lips working to suppress a smile that, for some reason, he did not wish Miss Spencer to see.
“You have got the special licence, have not you?” she asked, still absorbed in her own reflections.
He bowed assent. “My connections in society are of some use, after all,” he said. He would have continued, but he was interrupted by a great noise that seemed to issue from the hall. Someone, apparently, was flying up the stairs, and making quite a clamour about it, too.
“What on earth can have happened this time?” Gillian exclaimed impatiently, as she made for the door. She opened it and hastened across the hall, expecting to find his Lordship alone. Instead, she found Cordelia with him; Cordelia was looking extremely smug.
“Whatever has passed?” Miss Spencer demanded.
“It is Felicity,” said her sister. “She’s gone off in a pet again; I don’t know why.”
Gillian turned towards Courtney, intending to ask him the meaning of the disturbance, but she checked herself on the instant. She had never seen Lord Yates angry; she had not supposed that a man so young could look so angry. Yet, his countenance was clearly full of fury. “My Lord!” she said.
“I must bid you good day for now, madam,” he said, his voice under severe control. He made a shallow, rigid bow to Cordelia and quitted the room directly, ignoring Miles altogether.
“Will no one tell me what happened?” Gillian inquired, as the front door shut behind him.
“I did tell you,” Cordelia insisted calmly, interjecting a polite “Good-day” to Mr. Lawrence. “Felicity flew into the boughs again. Apparently, she cannot bear to be with Lord Yates.”
She looked so satisfied, and was so clearly pleased with whatever had occurred, that Gillian had to scotch an impulse to slap her. Instead, she excused herself hastily to Miles and ascended the stairs. She found Felicity sobbing once again in her bedchamber.
“It—O, it was awful!” the girl cried, throwing herself upon Miss Spencer. “She tried to—to ruin me. O, Gillian, why?”
There followed a long, confused tale, in which Cordelia—as Gillian had suspected—was the chief villain. She had, it seemed, gone down to the drawing room as soon as Miss Spencer had left the hall with Miles, admitted herself to the tête-à-tête, and sabotaged it. This had not been difficult to accomplish, since Felicity was always, even under the best of circumstances, liable to confusion when attacked by her older sister’s sharp words. In this case she had, of course, been even more susceptible than she usually was, and it had been a matter of minutes only before Cordelia had reduced her to hot cheeks and red tears. She had left the drawing room in response to a particularly scathing criticism, convinced not only of his Lordship’s loathing, but of Cordelia’s as well.
Gillian went down to interrogate the latter as soon as Felicity had quieted down enough to be left alone. “What on earth made you do such a thing?” she demanded, utterly out of sympathy.
Cordelia regarded her interlocutor coldly. “I thought,” she said, with what struck Gillian as outrageous impertinence, “that if Lord Yates did not offer for her, my father might consider Lord Vaughn again.”
“You thought—what?” asked she, disbelieving her ears.
“Just what I have said,” Cordelia answered. This time, however, she had the grace to blush slightly.
“When I think of all I have done for you,” Gillian began, but she soon decided not to pursue the thought. “We will say nothing further of this incident: not between ourselves, and not to anyone else. You may go upstairs and apologise to your sister, and I suggest you do it sincerely and repeatedly, for frankly I doubt if she ought to forgive you at all.”
Cordelia regarded her companion as if she had no notion what she had done to merit such harsh words. “I only did it because of Vaughn, because I love—”
“Not another word!” Gillian commanded, her voice rising in fury. She knew instinctively that to hear Cordelia’s explanations would only enrage her further; how could one dare to explain such barefaced cruelty? To justify it—! She did not permit herself even to think upon it, for she realized that in spite of it all, in spite of Cordelia’s meanness and her own consequent wrath, she had decided to help the girl, and help her she would. In view of that fact, she felt, the less heard from Cordelia the better. By tomorrow night she would be Lady Vaughn—and good luck to her. Miss Spencer trembled as these thoughts raced through her mind, and she sat down near the fireplace, striving to calm herself. It was not until she had done so that she realised Miles had not yet departed; he was standing quietly by the mantelpiece, watching her.
“Have you been here all this while?” she asked, her anger still ringing faintly in her voice.
“Quite some time,” he admitted. “Miss Spencer,” he said gently, going to her and taking her hand, “is it for her sake you wish to perpetrate the scheme we’ve contrived for tomorrow?”
“For Cordelia‘s, you mean? Yes. Odd, is not it?” she observed.
“Very odd. You are quite certain—forgive me if I appear to be prying into your sentiments more than you like—but it could not be for the Viscount, could it?”
“Yes; I suppose to an extent it is for his sake as well,” she replied, wondering what he was getting at. “Although I am sure he will not believe that.”
“And does that distress you much?”
“What?” she asked, puzzled.
“That he will not believe you. Please, you must allow me this curiosity. I assure you, I have a reason.”
“No, then. I suppose it does not distress me overmuch,” she said. “I never thought of it, to say truth.” She cocked her head slightly and looked at him, completely at a loss to understand his drift.
“That is all I wished to know,” he said, smiling. “Good-day, Miss Spencer.”
“Until tomorrow,” she murmured in reply. Mr. Lawrence bowed deeply over her right hand, kissed it, and quitted The Haven.
He used the rest of the day to carry out a quite remarkable number of commissions, running here and there all over London to purchase things and make arrangements. He spent a solitary evening in his lodgings—a rare occurrence indeed—and retired quite late, wearing all the while the look of a man deep in contemplation. In the morning he dressed with care and drove his curricle to Lord Vaughn’s town-house. He took a moment, before lifting the knocker, to muss up his hair slightly and to work his demeanour into a state of apparent anxiety. By the time the butler opened to him, he looked almost desperate. He was shown into the library, where Winsted joined him presently.
“Vaughn!” cried Miles, jumping up abruptly.
“Thank God you are here, my dear fellow.”
“Why, whatever is the trouble?” his Lordship inquired mildly.
“Haste, Vaughn, make haste! ‘England hath need of thee!’ ”
“That’s that fellow Wordsworth, isn’t it?” Lord Vaughn remarked stupidly. “But I thought he was addressing Milton?”
“Great heavens, man, don’t stand there quibbling over literature! The time has come to act, Vaughn. Now is the hour!” He shook Winsted’s shoulders dramatically as he said this. As usual, he was enjoying his role.
“But what is it? What do you want Me to do?”
“Come, come with me! We must hurry—there is a great disturbance…I’ll tell you all, later, but for now, into my curricle.”
“But I do not wish to go to a disturbance,” Winsted objected.
“You must! No one can quell it but you—you must speak to the people. O, I cannot explain it now, dear fellow—they are waiting for us, we must go to Surrey at once.”
“Surrey?”
“Yes,” Miles exclaimed, with a gesture of frantic despair. “Surrey! Your people! You must speak to them.”
Lord Vaughn continued to look dubious.
“Trust me, my Lord,” Miles entreated theatrically. “I swear you will not regret it.”
“I must say good-by to My Mother,” he said at last. “Where are we going?”
“Surrey,” said Miles, “Cobham in Surrey. Make haste!”
Lord Vaughn departed rather slowly, however, as if weighed down by his confusion. “Curious,” he kept saying under his breath; “most curious.”
Miles was left for a few minutes to applaud his own performance, and to plan his next lines. Once Vaughn was in the curricle, it mattered little what he was told. Still, it must be done delicately, or he would insist upon turning back when they stopped to change the horses.
Miss Spencer, meantime, was displaying a comparable ability in the histrionic arts. She had arranged, quite cleverly as she thought, for the Viscount and Felicity to be absent from the household that morning. She had insisted that Valerian take his daughter on an outing to mend her broken spirits, for she had explained that the interview with Lord Yates had not been successful, though she did not say why. The Viscount obliged her with good, paternal grace, a circumstance that almost made Gillian feel ashamed of herself. Fortunately, however, she had little time to indulge in such sentiments. She disposed of Trigg by sending him on a trifling errand, then ran outside and rang the doorbell. She then ran back in and delivered a letter to herself.
“O dear!” she cried loudly, standing in the hall and facing the staircase. “O, Gracious Heavens!” she said, on a positive wail.
This had the desired effect of causing Cordelia to run from her bedchamber, where she had been reading a book Gillian had been careful to give her, to the top of the stairs.
“What is it?” she demanded.
Gillian waved the letter frantically, and looked as if she would swoon.
“Yes, but what is it?” Cordelia repeated. “It is—it is,” she faltered, “my mother!” she said at last. “It is?”
“Yes, my mother—this letter says—Oh, help me, Cordelia! I am so faint!”
Cordelia hurried down the steps and allowed Miss Spencer to lean upon her arm. “Is she ill?” she asked, guiding her to the drawing room and onto the settee.
“Ill?” Gillian inquired, from behind fluttering eyelids. “She is—she is dying!”
“O dear!”
“O dear, indeed! Cordelia, I must go to her. Please, you must help me; she needs me now.”
“But where is she?”
“In Cobham. In Surrey. O, it is at no great distance; your father will understand. Please, fetch our cloaks and order a carriage. Trigg will know where to find one.”
“But Trigg is not here.”
“Mrs. Trigg, then!” said Gillian, her exasperation causing her to break slightly from her role. Since she had arranged for a coach to be waiting in the yard, it was not long before Mrs. Trigg located it, and as Mr. Trigg reappeared shortly, they were soon in a fair way to be going.
“Wait a moment,” said Cordelia. “I must leave a note for my father; he will have no idea what has occurred.”
“Yes, all right, but hurry, please,” Gillian begged. She had known, of course, that Cordelia would want to leave such a note, but she counted on the Viscount’s general indifference to the familial affairs of other people to prevent him from following them. “Tell him we shall be well taken care of, and will send word soon.” She wondered, as Cordelia went off to scribble her letter, how that young lady had learned such stern notions of propriety. If only she had had her father’s spirit, there would be no need of these theatricals. As it was, however, she knew Cordelia would never consent to so indecent a thing as elopement, let alone with a man who was being tricked into it. She had only a few minutes to pursue these reflections, however, for Cordelia reappeared presently, the note neatly folded. Gillian resumed her drooping posture.
“Help me into the coach,” she whispered, as if she could speak no louder. “Ah, dear Lord,” she continued, as the coachman she had engaged the day before roused the horses, “please let her live to see me once again.”
The fact that both her parents had passed away more than eight years before troubled her not one whit.
Chapter XI
The Viscount returned Felicity to The Haven some time after two o’clock and went off immediately to visit John Abernethy on behalf of Miss Grouse. The middle-aged physician was at first amused, and then intrigued, with the tale Valerian told of the rich Cit’s daughter.
“I should like to help her,” he said at length, “but I doubt, sir, if it will be possible for her to set up her own shop. Who would patronise it? No one is likely to have faith in a female apothecary.”
“No one among the ton, perhaps, but I assure you she is not at all interested in a fashionable clientele. I am certain she will be content to be of service to anyone at all—the poor, for example, would do quite well. And whether she earns a profit does not, I think, signify to her in the least.”
“Indeed? Remarkable!” Abernethy exclaimed. “When am I to know the identity of this lady?”
“Soon enough, I hope,” replied Valerian, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice. Still, he departed well pleased with the outcome of his endeavours, meditating upon the value of a large acquaintance, and wondering how to present his revelation of Thomasina’s ambitions to Mr. Grouse. He was not, therefore, prepared to find Felicity in a flutter when he arrived at The Haven, and it took him some time to discover the cause of her concern.
“It is two things, Papa,” she kept saying. “First, Gillian and Cordelia are not here; and then, look whose card has been left on the tray!”
“It is only Yates’s,” said the Viscount, examining it. “Is it so astonishing that he should call upon us?”
“Yes, Papa,” she cried, twisting her hands nervously. “Well, no, perhaps—but after yesterday, what could he want?”
“I have not the least idea. Possibly to say Good-day?”
“O, I do not think so. And look at this note for you; it is in Cordelia’s hand!”
“My dear,” said Sherbourne mildly, “in light of the fact that she is my daughter, and is absent, that is hardly cause for surprise.”
“Yes, but, Papa, what is inside it?”
“Did you not open it?”
“But it is addressed to you!”
All the Viscount’s fondness for his younger daughter could not prevent him from reflecting at this moment that she was—a trifle at least—shatter-brained. He opened the letter good-humouredly, however, and read aloud:
“‘Father,
“‘Miss Spencer’s mother has been taken ill, suddenly, and it seems as if she may die. We had this news in a letter this morning, and are off together to Cobham in Surrey, where Mrs. Spencer resides. Miss Spencer bids me tell you that you are not to worry about us, for we shall be well taken care of, and shall send word later. I do not know if we return tonight.
“‘Cordelia’”
“Well, there is that mystery solved,” said the Viscount.
Felicity appeared to be thinking hard. “Yes, but, Papa, there is something odd about it…”
“And what is that, my dear?”
“Well, simply that—I could almost take an oath Gillian told me—” But at precisely this juncture she was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, which groaned deeply. Since Trigg was, for some reason, absent from the front hall, the Viscount opened the door himself. Lord Yates stood upon the doorstep. Felicity ran up the stairs.
“Come in, my Lord,” said the Viscount cordially, eager to distract him from Felicity’s headlong flight. “I am so sorry I was not at home when you called earlier; delighted you’ve come back.”
Courtney did not appear to be in a humour for formalities. His young, full lips were compressed grimly, and his grey eyes seemed to accuse the Viscount. “I. wish to speak with you,” he said.
“Then, by all means, let us go into the drawing room.” Valerian answered, leading the way. He had not failed to observe the intensity of Courtney’s expression, but he did not quite like it, and hoped to lessen it by insisting upon conventional behaviour. “May I offer you some sherry? Coffee, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you. Sherbourne, I have come to speak with you about Felicity. Your daughter,” he added, from nervousness.
“Yes, yes, my dear fellow; but tell me—”
“I want to marry her,” he broke in. “I will not be put off.”
The Viscount stared at him for a moment. “But my dear fellow, why on earth should I wish to put you off?” he inquired, smiling.
“You do not—you accept my offer?” said Courtney, incredulously.
“But, of course, my dear sir. In fact, I am pleased beyond words!”
“But Cordelia—” He paused, musing.
“Cordelia?” the Viscount prompted.
“Miss Collins intimated that—that you held me in—well, in disesteem, at best.”
“Did she?” asked Valerian, at a loss. “Whatever for, I wonder?”
“I have no idea. I thought she was trying to caution me, at the time, so that I should not be embarrassed by having my suit rejected.”
“How extraordinary! And what time was that?”
“Why, yesterday afternoon, of course. After Felicity…left the room.”
“My dear fellow,” said the Viscount, who had never allowed himself to see Cordelia’s selfishness, and was consequently sincerely puzzled, “what precisely did she say?”
“Well, that you doated on Felicity—”
“That is true, I do.”
“And that you were determined to see her become the most prominent hostess in London. That you would never permit her to live retired, and that you were persuaded that I—and my family—were far too much in the habit of rusticating to help her to such a position. But it is not true, my Lord! If that is indeed your ambition for your daughter, and if she joins you in it herself—well, then,” he paused to take a deep breath, “I am resolved to plunge into society full force, and to give up the quiet of my life forever, if need be. And I can do it,” he added resolutely.
