Practical heart, p.9
Practical Heart, page 9
The girls’ voices were heard as they entered The Haven; Courtney braced himself as if for an attack of cavalry. Cordelia entered the drawing room first.
“My Lord,” she said, “how kind of you to call.” He rose and bowed to her politely.
“Who is here?” Felicity was asking as she followed her sister. “Oh! My Lord!” she cried, colouring instantly. “I—that is, we saw your curricle, and did not know…is not Lady Caroline come with you?”
“How is your father?” Courtney burst out.
“My father?” she repeated, bewildered.
His Lordship cast a desperate glance at Miss Spencer. “Your father,” he began, stammering, “is a most—a most estimable man,” he finished courageously.
“Yes, indeed he is,” agreed Felicity, who looked about to cry. “He is—O dear,” she broke off, “excuse me, I beg!” And with that she fled the room and rushed upstairs, to fling herself across her bed and cry.
Cordelia witnessed this scene in complete confusion. “I am sorry for my sister’s behaviour,” she began. “I am sure she did not mean to appear so rude. She—she was not feeling at all well this morning. I think perhaps she is not quite over her illness of last night.”
“I beg you will not apologise,” said Courtney quietly, with a curious kind of humbled dignity. “I shall call again at some more convenient time.”
Miss Spencer escorted him to the door. “You must not give up,” she whispered hurriedly.
He looked at her sadly. “It is hopeless,” he answered. “She cares only for my sister.” With that he quitted the house. He did not revisit The Haven until two full days had passed, at which time he found all the family party at home, and he and Felicity reverted to their usual behaviour, Courtney confining his attention to the Viscount, Cordelia, and Miss Spencer, and Felicity showering hers upon Lady Caroline (whom Courtney had been careful to bring with him). Miss Spencer had, of course, endeavoured to discuss the case with Felicity, but even when she had stopped crying she would not hear of it.
“He must despise me,” she declared, beginning to weep again. “Imagine, he did not even ask me how I did! Only my father…” And she relapsed into exhausted sobs. Gillian conceded defeat, for the moment at least.
“General Spencer!” exclaimed Miles when he heard of the incident. “We have lost the battle perhaps, but surely not the war!”
“I am not a general,” Gillian said wearily, wishing Mr. Lawrence did not know quite so much about the Viscount’s affairs. If she had not mentioned the matter to Valerian, he could not have told Miles—but what was the use? The Viscount must be kept informed of his daughters’ progress.
“Miss Spencer,” Miles was saying sadly, “how short you are with me. You do like me, do not you?” he asked suddenly.
“I should say rather that I find you—O, I don’t know,” she ended inadequately, tiring suddenly of their careful banter.
“Then I shall have to be satisfied with my surmises,” Miles had said mysteriously, and turned the conversation.
The season went on round them, bringing the usual progression of suppers, rout parties, and balls. Lady Mufftow’s ball—the first the girls had ever attended—came and went, leaving behind it several pairs of aching feet and a hazy memory of brilliance. Lord Yates had been there, but he did not ask Felicity to dance, “which,” Felicity later said privately to Gillian, “only goes to show that I was right: he loathes me.”
They encountered the Vaughns everywhere, and after each meeting the Viscount’s remarks to Miss Spencer became more vehement. “What an ass the man is!” he exploded one evening, as they sat in the drawing room recovering from an excruciatingly tedious dinner to which Lady Vaughn had invited them. “She is graceless enough, God knows: vain, opinionated, haughty…but he! Such an arrogance, such self-satisfaction, such—such an empty, revolting disdain. And dull! And ordinary! Commonplace does not even begin to describe it. Do you know, I really thought tonight I should be obliged to stab him, rather than to bear one more insufferably pompous word?” He continued emphatically, “I protest, Miss Spencer! For all their money, and for all their position, and for all an alliance with them would eradicate our troubles immediately, I think I had rather kill my daughters than let one of them marry that prig.”
Cordelia had appeared in the doorway somewhere near the middle of this tirade. Now she spoke for the first time. “Whom are you discussing, Father?”
“Winsted,” he pronounced, spitting out the name.
“Winsted, Lord Vaughn?” she asked, nearly faltering.
“Yes, of course.”
“O—O—O, Father!” she wailed and, turning, rushed up the stairs just as Felicity had done some weeks before. Nor was her sorrow less violent than her sister’s had been.
“What on earth possessed her?” asked the Viscount, stupefied. Miss Spencer judged it wise not to answer.
Lord Vaughn arrived punctually at noon the next day, to ask the Viscount’s permission to offer for Cordelia.
“I think you must have some idea what brings Me here,” he began, when he and Valerian were closeted alone in the drawing room.
“Not the least in the world,” the Viscount disclaimed.
Winsted smiled indulgently. “Surely you must be aware by now that My attentions towards your daughter have become—quite pointed,” he pursued.
“Which daughter?” Valerian asked bluntly.
“Which daughter?” Winsted repeated (a habit he had learned from his mother). He laughed a small, coughing sort of laugh that said, “I think you must be quizzing Me, dear sir;” then specified, “But Cordelia, of course.”
“Cordelia?”
“Why, yes,” Winsted affirmed, beginning to feel that something was amiss. It occurred to him that he was not putting his case strongly enough. “You are aware, certainly,” he said, “that I have a great deal to offer to the woman I chuse for My bride. There is My title—not to be scoffed at, I trust—and an assured position in society; a modest fortune on which to live, a town house, and a country estate. Not to mention the affection of My Mother—who, I assure you, is already quite partial to your daughter.” He paused, waiting for an answer, but the Viscount was silent. “Perhaps you are afraid that I will require a large dowry in return for all this, but I promise you, I mean to be very reasonable in My demands.”
The Viscount spoke at last in a low tone, a tone beneath which so much fury was suppressed that he almost frightened himself. “Allow me to enlighten you upon a few subjects,” he began. “My daughters—my daughters tolerate you. They withstand you. They, if you will pardon me, suffer you. They do not, Lord Vaughn—they do not, and of this you may be certain—like you. Furthermore, I do not, either. I have noticed, in fact, that even my butler does not like you. Very frankly, I cannot think of anyone who does like you. Even your mother, I have sometimes suspected, does not actually like you. Moreover, sir, I will thank you to remember in the future that my daughters, sir—” Here his voice broke from mildness and ascended immediately to a voluble pitch of rage, “my daughters are not for sale! So, good day to you, sir, and goodbye.”
Lord Vaughn fled the room, convinced that the Viscount was mad, and went home to recount the tale to his mother. Valerian collapsed into a chair, still trembling with outrage. By the time Miss Spencer happened into the drawing room, he had recovered his sense of humour enough to be able to laugh while he informed her what had passed.
“You should have seen the look on his face!” he crowed, mimicking it for her. “As if his mother had just told him that elves and faeries do not really exist. Incredulous! Destroyed! As if he had never heard the word No before! Never seen daylight before! Awestruck! Amazed! Oh, my dear ma’am, it was too amusing for words.” And he broke into maniacal laughter on the words, buried his head in his hands, and hugged himself for pure merriment. “The look!” he gasped, now and again. “O! the look!”
Miss Spencer waited patiently until he had calmed down. “I am sure it was most entertaining, my Lord,” she said at last. The Viscount removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, his broad chest still heaving spasmodically with mirth. “I think, however, that the affair may have its serious side.”
“You do?” he asked. “Whatever can it be?”
“Well the fact is—and you will not like to hear this, sir, but it must be pointed out—the fact is, that Cordelia loves Lord Vaughn, and would be very happy to marry him.”
Valerian stared at her for a moment in amazed silence. “Preposterous,” he said finally, as if this dismissed the suggestion forever.
“Preposterous perhaps,” she insisted, “but true.”
“My daughter? Love that man? Anyone love that man, come to think of it? It is so ridiculous a proposition, I am astounded it could even occur to you.”
“My Lord, you may ask her yourself, if you wish to. She will say the same, I promise.”
“Bring her to me,” he commanded, as if to humour her. Miss Spencer went to fetch Cordelia.
“Sweet Gravity,” the Viscount began, when the ladies had arrived, “Miss Spencer has just been telling me something quite unusual. Quite—” he choked as he began to laugh again, “—ridiculous, in fact. She says—O, my dear, you will laugh, too, when I have told you—that you love Lord Vaughn. Winsted, Lord Vaughn,” he stressed.
Cordelia turned a little pale, but said nothing.
“Well? What have you to say to it?”
“It is true, Father,” she whispered. “I do.”
“True that you love him?” he said. “I beg your pardon, Cordelia, but I had almost thought you said that it was true.”
Cordelia looked helplessly at Miss Spencer, who took her hand in sudden sympathy and held it bracingly. “I did, Father. I do.”
“Well, if you do,” Valerian began, “but I know you cannot! I simply know it.” He mused for a moment. “Ah! I have it now. Cordelia, my sweet, sweet Gravity, you are kind to your old father, and I am grateful beyond words, but I see through your schemes, my dear. I will not have you sacrificing yourself for my sake. O, no, I would sooner marry Miss Mouse than allow you to endure a life of misery, merely to settle a few debts.”
“But, Father,” she said uncomfortably, “I am not sacrificing myself. I should like to marry Lord Vaughn. Really, I should.”
For the first time, he appeared to begin to believe her. “Cordelia,” he said slowly, “if you are truly in earnest, then I must absolutely forbid it. It is out of the question, entirely out of the question. It ought properly never to have been a question. To wish to marry him is the result of madness, if it can be anything at all. To wish to marry Lord Vaughn, my daughter, is to wish wretchedness upon yourself forever. To wed Lord Vaughn, Cordelia, is to wed folly. To bind yourself to Vaughn, my dear, is to bind yourself to regret, bitterness, and misery. It is to make a mockery of the institution of marriage. You will vow to love, honour, and suffer beyond human endurance. You will cry out upon your father, that he allowed it. So, I will not allow it. I absolutely will not allow it, neither now nor in the future, and I adjure you solemnly to forget the idea of it and leave it to the oblivion it so richly deserves.”
The Viscount had spoken.
Cordelia turned wordlessly and quitted the drawing room with a step so slow it was almost stately. Miss Spencer followed. It was a long time before Miss Collins could even cry, such was her devastation, and even longer before she could cease weeping. Miss Spencer sat with her and murmured nonsense words for a long, long time. Eventually, Cordelia cried herself to sleep.
“What is the matter with Cordelia, Papa?” asked Felicity, later in the afternoon.
“Nothing that need concern you, my dear,” he answered. His decision upon Cordelia’s marriage had been made in haste, but he did not find, as he reflected, that he repented it. It would be the utmost cruelty, he felt, to permit her to ruin her young life in such a way. A girl who had grown up with gaiety, with high spirits and pleasant society all round her—albeit in an atmosphere of poverty, at times—would surely wither in the care of such a man as Vaughn. Cordelia did not realise—she was too young to know—what it meant to be surrounded forever by tedium. Within a year, she would be aching for some real laughter, some honest and frank discourse, some unaffected manners. Then, too, he could not get away from the lingering suspicion that she had asked to marry Vaughn only because she knew how hotly her father’s creditor pursued him. Valerian had sought to instill a sense of the nobility of sacrifice in his children; perhaps he had gone too far. In any case, he did not doubt his decision, nor wish to reverse it. He felt sorry for Cordelia—Oh yes, sorry indeed—but he expected her vexation to pass within a few days, a week at most.
Miss Spencer knew better. At first, it had been as difficult for her to credit Cordelia’s feelings, as it had been for the Viscount, but her careful observation during recent weeks had gradually borne in upon her the fact that the girl truly did love Lord Vaughn. And, as she thought about it further, it did not seem so very strange to her after all. Cordelia had grown up with cheerful poverty; she was old enough to opt, if she wished to, for sober plenty. She approached the Viscount with these observations, but he, of course, stood firm.
Miss Spencer’s next recourse was to Mr. Lawrence. Turning to good account a morning, soon after, when he called and found her alone, she sketched the situation to him.
“Valerian told me of Winsted’s offer,” he said, “but I had no notion Cordelia felt so strongly about it. I do not think Valerian has, either,” he added musingly.
“I am sure he does not,” she agreed, “but that is just the trouble. Do you think you could make him see reason?”
“I discovered long ago, Miss Spencer,” he said, “that whereas my uncle is adept at seeing beauty in the most grotesque circumstances, and humour in the most grim, reason is a thing to which he is almost entirely blind.”
“But we cannot let the poor girl suffer like this!” she cried. “Felicity had to plead with her above an hour to persuade her to drive in the Park today; she hardly eats, complains of nightmares, feels that her life is blighted…it is too sad to dismiss with a shrug of the shoulders!”
“What alternative have we? I will gladly talk to Valerian, if you think it may help, but quite frankly I do not expect it will. He is a stubborn man, in his way.”
“No, I think you are right,” she said. “It is too much to expect that mere words might sway him, either mine or yours. No,” she repeated. “Well, I cannot like it, but I fear we will be obliged to fall back on my second plan, unhappy though its consequences may be.”
“Your second plan?” he inquired curiously.
She seemed not to hear him. “It will be the very devil—pardon me—to carry out, but there is nothing else for it after all, is there?”
“I have no idea,” he said pleasantly. “Is there?”
“And I will need your help,” she added, “a great deal of it, in fact. I hope you do not mind, but I simply cannot do it alone.”
“Very likely I shall be delighted to assist you,” he suggested, “but perhaps if you tell me what it is, we shall know more?”
“Tell you what it—O,” she said, smiling, “I have not told you what it is! How silly I am. Excuse me.” And, leaning forward a little to where he sat across from her, she began to explain in detail.
Chapter VIII
Thomas Grouse was a patient man, but there are limits to all things. He arrived at The Haven thinking something very much like this, and demanded to see the Viscount. It was above a month since he and his daughter had been invited to dine with Sherbourne and his family. In the interim, Valerian had called twice upon Miss Grouse—once to take her driving in the Park, and once to beg her to join his family party at the Opera, an invitation she had declined, saying she was otherwise engaged. Her father had watched these developments and questioned his daughter closely on the Viscount’s behaviour, but she had refused to say anything more than that he was uniformly gentlemanly and seemed quite amiable.
“You’ve no wish to be a viscountess, then?” he said. “A thousand other girls would give their eyeteeth to be.”
“I am sure they would, Papa.”
“But you ain’t like other girls, are you, Miss?”
“No, I suppose I am not,” she agreed, sighing. It was an observation he had made many times before, and he did not mean it to be a compliment.
So Mr. Grouse judged it time to take the bull by the horns, and he approached Valerian frankly. “You owe me a sum of money, sir,” he said, his pudgy index finger poking fatly through the delicate handle of a Sève teacup. He peered accusingly at his host. “I’m not a man as likes to wait,” he said, “and I have been kept waiting.”
“How is your daughter?” Valerian hazarded desperately.
“Well enough,” he replied, refusing to be sidetracked. “Now, you’ve a mighty fine house here, my Lord—”
“She is a most delightful young lady,” Sherbourne persisted with dogged despair. “Truly, I do enjoy her company no end!”
“A mighty queer gal, if you ask me,” said her father, giving in for a moment. “Still, I thought for awhile there you had taken a fancy to her.”
“O, I had!” cried Valerian. “I had, indeed! Did, and do, sir. A—an extraordinary girl, as you say.”
Mr. Grouse surveyed him suspiciously. “If you do have a fancy to her,” he said at last, “you’re the first man who does.”
“O, I cannot credit that!” the Viscount exclaimed with nervous enthusiasm. “I cannot believe but that she has dozens of swains.”
Mr. Grouse was silent for a moment, consulting deep within himself. “Sherbourne,” he commenced at last, “let us have some pound dealing here. Now, you say you like my daughter. I say you owe me some money.” He paused to flash his wicked grin. “I know it ain’t the way of the gentry to lay their cards on the table, as you might say, but this tomfoolery has gone on long enough. If you like my daughter well enough to marry her, sir, I think we may come to some kind of settlement about your debt to me.”
