The love child, p.20
The Love Child, page 20
Her delicate cheeks went crimson. “No,” she murmured.
“And when do you expect to love again?” he pursued.
“Not…soon,” she said, barely audibly. “Perhaps not ever.”
“And yet you feel you have the luxury to push this opportunity away?” he demanded. “This is very madness!” His whole countenance had become cloudy and storm-like; she would have been frightened indeed if she had not known how much he cared for her.
“If it is then I chuse to be mad,” she flung back at him. Tears sprang into her eyes and rolled hotly down her cheeks. “What do you know of poverty anyway? You have had ease all round you, from birth. The only luxury I can afford is an easy conscience. And that I shall insist upon, I do insist upon. You may not rob me of it, for all your wealth and all your power!”
Her sharp defiance brought him up short. “I suppose we have nothing more to say to each other today,” he muttered after some minutes.
“The less we say the better,” she agreed, and though her tone was hard and cold, her tears were not.
“You will return to Grasmere?” he said, as if this were inevitable.
“I shall consider it,” she said quietly. “I must reflect on what is best to do, and I shall do that more easily at home.”
“If you do not come back, I shall come after you,” he warned her.
“I trust you will not attempt to capture me and carry me off,” she replied, her voice somewhat muffled by the handkerchief she was now applying to her nose.
“So long as you are careful not to force me to such extremes,” he answered. He smiled at her, but it was a very sad smile. “When do you expect to be going?” he inquired.
Miss Chilton said she hoped to leave as soon as possible, in a day or two at most.
“I shall arrange a coach for you,” he said.
“I shall travel by the mail,” said she.
“Ah, that I will not hear of!”
“An employe who has been turned off is not sent home in state,” she reminded him.
“If you do nothing else, will you at least do me the kindness to forget you were ever in my employ?” he begged. The argument as to Miss Chilton’s method of travel continued some while; the duke, in the event, triumphed. It was a sorry victory however, for him, since it only brought home to him all the more the fact that Miss Chilton would soon quit Grasmere. He was determined that she would return after Christmas—he would carry her off by force, if necessary, despite what she thought—but he could not honestly say to himself that her return then would settle anything. Certainly it would save him from despair, for a time at least—but he could not oblige her to marry him, and it was only her consenting to be his wife which would make him happy. His Grace was really convinced of this: never once, since the night of the ball in honour of Amabel Stanton and Lord Wyborn, had he ever contemplated the possibility of finding happiness without Lotta Chilton. It had grown to be a kind of mania with him; he was obsessed with the notion of making Miss Chilton his duchess. The dowager duchess’s fury with him, terrific though it was, scarcely disturbed him. She would come round, in time; the major issue, the crucial point, was to obtain Lotta’s hand. If he did not absolutely forbid her to leave Grasmere for Christmas, it was only because a few shreds of sanity still clung to him.
Lotta did not come down to dinner that day; she passed those hours alone, occupied in writing to the Chiltons. She wrote to advise them of her imminent return, a task which she did not find easy. Twice she was obliged to begin afresh, since twice her tears fell on the paper and caused the ink to blur. The scene in the dining-parlour downstairs was very different from the one where she wrote: the company, deprived of rehearsals and with no positive festivities to look forward to, was already growing restless. How they should amuse themselves through the Christmas season became the general topic of conversation at table, and it was continued when the assembled party had all regained the drawing-room.
“I think we ought to have a murder,” said Lady Madeline Olney, with a tiny yawn. “Somebody kill somebody in a jealous rage—yes, that’s it! How exciting that would be,” she added, and returned, eyes sparkling, to Roger Cawley for confirmation.
“Doubtless very exciting,” said he politely, “but a trifle inconvenient for the victim, I should say. Jessie, haven’t you any ideas for diversion? We all rely on you for that sort of thing, you know.”
“My profoundest apologies,” said Miss Cawley, “but I must cry off this time. My bubbling springs of creative invention have gone quite dry, after my recent, strenuous efforts. Someone else must create an entertainment.”
“Surely you cannot expect us to believe so much as that!” objected Mr. Septimus Faust, who sat by the duchess on the other side of the fireplace. “If nothing else, I trust your novel-writing still goes forward.”
“Ah that!” she cried. “Indeed—but that is like breathing to me. I should not know how to live, were it not for that.”
“So it would appear,” said Faust. They had developed a shallow, bantering, slightly abrasive relationship during the time when the play was being rehearsed. Now he spoke to her lightly, but with a purpose. “Spinning tales is as natural to you as spinning webs is to the spider.”
Miss Cawley nodded assent, her tight curls bouncing with the movement.
“Won’t you tell us a story, then?” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A story,” he repeated, leaning forward. “After all, it is nearly Christmas Eve. We ought to have a few ghost stories, at least; we always did when I was a child.”
“So did we,” said Lady Louisa Bridwell, who sat on his other side. Her eyes grew misty almost at once, and she went on, “It was my favourite time of year. We all gathered by the fireside, while the wind howled out of doors, and munched on Christmas comfits, and went to bed scared half out of our wits. It was splendid! Don’t you recall it, Sarah? Sarah passed many a Christmas with my family,” she added, for the benefit of those who did not know.
“I recall it,” said the duchess, but without the mistiness of feature or sensation that Lady Louisa suggested. Lady Louisa was the only person still living who called her Sarah; she did not enjoy that, nor did she like being reminded of happy days fifty years before.
Mr. Faust (as he frequently did) leapt in to fill up the conversational lapse. “That’s what I say,” he explained to Jessica. “We ought to have some ghost stories. And who will tell them better than yourself?”
“Ghosts,” Jessica remarked, largely to herself. “You haven’t been talking to Mr. Longstreth, have you?” she asked Mr. Faust. The idea of ghosts and the idea of Mr. Longstreth had become so intertwined in her mind, she could scarcely think of one without the other.
“Not as much as I should like to,” said Septimus politely.
“Hmmph,” Jessica returned. “Well, as for your stories—why don’t you tell them? Roger and I grew up with no such tradition; we should be very green at it, no doubt, while you must be a master.”
“I’ll tell one,” said Faust, a trifle reluctantly. “But someone else must tell another.”
“Well, I trust someone else will,” said Miss Cawley. No one said anything in reply; all sat gazing at her. “Pray, do not look at me that way! I am weary of amusing you all. Let…let Lady Louisa tell a story; she must remember some from her youth.”
“Ah, my dear,” that good lady protested at once. “It is long since my youth!”
“Surely not!” cried Septimus Faust immediately, as if deeply shocked.
Lady Louisa, never averse to flattery, produced a foolish smile. “I am older than you think, it is clear,” she told him.
“Ah, were you twice as old as I think,” said Faust outrageously, “you should still be young!”
“My good sir,” she objected, though flushed with pleasure, “I will never be twice as old as I am.”
“Be still my breaking heart!” he exclaimed, causing a general hilarity among the company which, though hearty, was not cruel. Lady Louisa was a woman whom it was almost impossible to offend, and she laughed good-naturedly along with the rest. She was also a woman who could be coaxed to do nearly anything, and before half an hour had gone by, she had agreed to regale the company with as thrilling a ghost story as she could devise. Mr. Faust was to take his turn first, though, in order to clear the way for her, as it were. There were those among the company who desired him to begin that very evening, but he resisted them, claiming that his story would not be a fabrication but a true, horrifying incident from his own life (“I knew your history was sordid,” the duchess remarked) and that he must brace himself for the reliving of the event before he began to tell it.
“You will kindly remember there are ladies present,” said Her Grace, when Faust had made this declaration.
“Dear ma’am,” said Faust, with a bow; “I cannot forget you when you are absent! How then shall I forget you when you are not?”
“Under this unlikely exterior,” said the duchess, waving a vague hand at Mr. Faust’s bony skeleton and emaciated countenance, “beats the hard heart of a practised trifler. Ladies, I give you fair warning.”
“He has already practised some of his arts on me,” said the Contessa di Tremini, who had happened to stroll over to the group near the fireplace just as the dowager said this. “I resisted, of course—but who can say if I should withstand a second siege?” She lifted her chin and narrowed her gorgeous violet eyes, resting their extraordinary rays on Mr. Faust.
“I besiege you!” exclaimed Faust at once. “Dear madam, be kind, be just, I implore. The light of your eyes is liquid fire, and melts such paltry arms as I can muster.”
The contessa laughed and appealed to the company round her. “Have you ever seen arrogance masquerade so convincingly as humility?” she asked.
“Or experience tricked out so neatly in the trappings of innocence?” Septimus countered at once.
“Ah! Impertinent!” cried the voluptuous widow. She lifted to her cheek a thickly beplumed fan, pretending to hide a blushing countenance behind it. Everyone knew there was absolutely nothing behind this teasing exchange of innuendo between herself and Mr. Faust, but the contessa enjoyed such flattering nonsense, and she sought to prolong it by exclaiming, “Will no one defend me?”
A general smile went among the company, but there was one who did not share it. This was Mr. Chauncey Stanton, and he—so far from smiling—shouted out at once, “I will! I will, madam; I am at your feet.”
The party, vastly amused, turned toward him at once.
“Thank you, sir,” said the Countess Tremini to him, mostly in order that someone should say something. She strived to look as amused as the others at her young admirer’s awkward gallantry, but she was in fact secretly annoyed. She did not like to have ridiculous figures share the same tableau as herself; she was extremely vain, and felt she took too much trouble with her toilette to have it ruined by the chance appearance of a clown by her side.
Chauncey visibly trembled; this was the most encouraging phrase he had ever had from her lips. “Do not thank me, prithee,” he brought out, his voice quivering. “Your own comfort is enough for me; I have no need of your gratitude.”
“Indeed,” murmured the contessa, and retired again behind her fan—this time for a purpose. She had a scowl to hide.
Lord Walker Stanton had been seated at some distance from his son (Lady Stanton, mercifully, was in her own apartment) and had missed the opening of Chauncey’s public conversation with the countess. The silence which had fallen over the group attracted his attention, however, and he looked up to discover his son and heir in an attitude of abject worship toward the magnificent contessa. In a trice he was on his feet and beside Chauncey. “Go up to your mother,” he said, in a low tone, but with a good deal of emphasis.
Young Stanton stood still. The company gazed with interest.
“Go up to your mother, I say,” his lordship repeated, in a hissing whisper.
Chauncey managed to detach his eyes from the countess, and to turn them upon his father, but he could not say anything—he was too excited.
“My son, are you mad?” Lord Stanton demanded. He regarded the interested onlookers for the first time, saying, “You must excuse my son. He is too young to know what a spectacle he creates.”
Chauncey found his tongue. “I am not too young for anything, Father,” said he. “Madam, am I too young to be devoted to you?”
The contessa, who had the distinction of being addressed in this wise, hesitated. “Too young to be devoted, no,” she said at length. “Too young to know what to do about it—perhaps.”
Chauncey, though he was not very bright, began to perceive that his ardour was not entirely appreciated. “Father, you do not understand,” he said, in spite of his growing suspicion. “Someone has offered Lady di Tremini an insult.”
“I am sure she was too wise to take it, if so,” Lord Stanton returned, with difficulty. The reader will easily understand how abhorrent it was to him to be obliged to deal politely with the contessa.
“Father—” Chauncey began again, hotly.
“It was a jest,” Jessica Cawley put in suddenly. She had begun to feel rather as if she were attending a bear-baiting: young Stanton was awkward, he was unattractive, he was foolish—but it was cruel to encourage him to even greater folly merely for the sake of diversion. “I fear Mr. Stanton arrived too late upon the scene to understand the humour in which Mr. Faust spoke to her ladyship.”
Lord Stanton bowed briefly to Jessica. “Many thanks, madam. Now, sir, will you go to your mother?” he added to Chauncey. His face had gone utterly red, and he could but barely govern his temper.
Chauncey looked from his father to his idol. “Must I?” he whimpered.
“Good God, yes, young man! How many times shall I say it?”
This was delivered so sternly that it penetrated even to Chauncey’s addled consciousness. “Dear ma’am,” he said, with a crooked bow to the countess, “I am obliged to depart. I beg you will remember me should you be in—in need of…in need of…” He wanted to say, a true knight, but this struck him as perhaps a bit overdone. “In need of assistance,” he concluded at last, and bowed once more—even less gracefully than before, if such a thing were possible. His father nodded quickly to the company and left the drawing-room directly, shepherding his straying lamb before him. The whole scene, painful and yet so amusing, continued to be talked about for half an hour. It was thought by some that Lord Stanton was needlessly harsh with the boy; others (the duchess was among these) felt that Chauncey oughtn’t to be permitted into society until he had learned to conduct himself more reasonably.
“I felt sorry for him,” said Jessica Cawley to Mr. Longstreth, several hours later, when most of the inhabitants of Grasmere had gone to bed. They were in the little sitting-room near the picture gallery; Jessica had insisted upon their watching for the ghost that night. Algernon had been much disinclined to join her, but Jessica (by far the better debater) had prevailed.
“I don’t think it’s worth the bother,” he had said, when she announced her resolve. “I doubt he’ll come round tonight.”
“And why not?” said Jessica, perceiving at once the nervousness beneath his careless tone.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he returned, with an effort at nonchalance. “It just seems the wrong sort of night, that’s all.”
“Oh, I couldn’t disagree more heartily,” she had answered, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture.
“But…well then, all right—but you must allow me to wear the ring,” he had said. Poor Algernon had been forsaken by his friends: Karr had agreed not to give the plan away to Miss Cawley, but he had also refused to assist any longer in making the footsteps (he and Remington had done this together in the past, Cosmo running silently from the first room to the third while Karr traversed the middle one). Remington, though he had not positively refused to help, was not keen for it either. He had intimated to Longstreth that he preferred to play billiards or sleep at such hours, rather than frighten young ladies. Longstreth knew, then, that the ghost could not possibly walk that night. Jessica, though she could not know, guessed as much from his discomposure.
“No, indeed,” she had protested promptly. “Last time you took the ring we lost it, and I did not hear the ghost at all,” she reminded him. “I shall not be so foolish again.”
“But Miss Cawley—”
“If you insist, you may take it from me, after I have heard him begin to walk. And do you know, I think tonight we must begin to speak to him.”
“Speak to him?”
“Indeed! What use is it to make the acquaintance of a ghost, if one does not ask him any questions?” She smiled at him, supremely delighted at his horrified expression.
“What—what should you like to ask him?” he inquired faintly.
She shrugged. “Oh, anything. About dead things, and the after-life, and hell…and whether he really is Robin Hood, of course. Imagine the mysteries we can clear up! We shall straighten out his legend once for all.”
Mr. Longstreth had given up apprehensivensss and was now going in for despair. “I suppose you know how to communicate with spirits?” he said morosely.
“Certainly. One puts the question, and tells the ghost to knock once for yes, twice for no.”
“And suppose the ghost can’t knock?” he asked dismally.
“Well, ours can certainly stamp, if nothing else. We shall tell him to stamp, if necessary.”
“Oh, very good. That is fine,” he answered, glummer every moment. “I am vastly relieved now.”
“And so you should be,” Jessica had replied, nodding brightly. This conversation had taken place before dinner; by the time they met in the little sitting-room, Longstreth had sunk firmly into hopelessness. He almost stopped Miss Cawley before they had begun: the game was off, and she might as well know it sooner as later. He did not feel quite equal to the admission however, and so he merely agreed with her that young Stanton had been pathetic, and consented to follow her into the gallery. It was understood that she would address the ghost as soon as he had taken his first few steps.
