Practical Heart, page 10
The Viscount felt a twinge of terror.
“Now, I know this idea may be new to you, sir, and no doubt you’d like some time to think it over. I’m not averse to that, my Lord. We’ll give you—let us say, to a week from today. If I haven’t heard from you one way or another by that time, I’ll come round again to collect my due.” He grinned his evil grin and set his teacup down awkwardly. “Are we understood?”
Valerian, caught between a choke and a gasp, replied, “Indeed, Mr. Grouse, well understood.”
Mr. Grouse departed soon after. When Gillian heard the Viscount’s account of the interlude, she was moved to despatch a quick note to Miles, begging him “to get on with the business in all haste.” Hoping to put him in a good humour, she signed herself “The General.” Miles read this, laughed, and prepared to make a call.
He was fortunate enough to find Winsted, Lord Vaughn, at home, and his mother out. Lord Vaughn was aware of Mr. Lawrence’s relationship to Sherbourne, and was therefore reluctant to see him, but he did not think it proper to allow rudeness to beget rudeness, and he instructed his man to “Show Mr. Lawrence in.”
“I do not believe I have ever had the pleasure of a personal call from you before,” he said when the usual formalities had been accomplished and Miles sat before him, sipping a glass of sherry. Lord Vaughn raised his quizzing glass and peered at his guest. “Is it possible you have some particular motive in coming here?”
“It is,” said Miles. “I am pleased to find you so frank.”
“I always endeavour to be frank,” said Lord Vaughn painfully, and Miles supposed it was true. Very likely Winsted did strive for candour; it was only his damnable notions of propriety that made him so abysmally circuitous most of the time.
“I appreciate that in you, my Lord,” he said, leaning back a little and stretching his long legs out before him gracefully. “The matter I have come to discuss this morning is a trifle—delicate, I expect one would say. It concerns, to be blunt, a lady. Two ladies, in fact.”
“And may I know the identity of these ladies?” Lord Vaughn inquired.
Miles hesitated for a moment. “They are—they are in the most acute distress, Lord Vaughn, and only you can relieve them.”
“Indeed?” said Vaughn, flattered into forgetting that he did not know what they were talking about. “I shall be happy to be of assistance, of course.”
“I think you will,” said Miles. “This matter touches quite closely upon your own happiness as well, you know.”
“It does? Well, whether it did or no, I should feel obliged to lend My most energetic assistance in such a case.” Warming to his subject, he added, “I feel it is the duty of any gentleman to aid the fair sex in making their way through the world. The natural condition of a lady is frailty, is not it? And yet they are so defenseless in the face of the damage which may be done to their fragile reputations, their all-too-susceptible sensibilities.”
Miles thought briefly of Lady Letitia Vaughn and was obliged to stifle a laugh. Gillian’s image, too, came before him, but he set it aside directly, saying, “I am most reassured by your attitude, sir, for I know now that you will not fail to help me in this case.”
“You have My word upon it, sir,” Winsted responded solemnly.
“I need no other assurance,” Miles rejoined, just to be safe. “You will not be surprised when I caution you that what I am about to reveal is said in the strictest confidence?”
“My dear sir—!” said Winsted, shocked at the implication.
“I knew you would understand.”
“You may rely upon Me implicitly.”
Miles was beginning to tire of all this empty discussion, and felt it was high time to introduce his main purpose. “Thus reassured, I need no longer conceal the ladies’ names,” he announced.
“O no, indeed,” agreed Lord Vaughn, his polite mask concealing a greedy curiosity to know. “Though if for some reason you judge it wise to preserve their anonymity…”
“Not at all, my dear Vaughn. I have come to you, sir, at the bidding of a Miss Gillian Spencer. I believe you are acquainted with her?”
Lord Vaughn’s uneasiness was instantly manifest. “I think so,” he agreed cautiously.
“Of course you are,” said Miles. “And you are also acquainted with the young ladies to whom she is companion, are not you?”
“I—have some knowledge of them,” Winsted admitted uncomfortably.
“My dear Vaughn,” cried Miles, savouring his host’s sudden discomfiture, “we agreed to trust one another, you know! I am well aware that you love Cordelia, and that you offered for her.”
Lord Vaughn regarded his guest in sullen, suspicious silence.
“And also that your proposal was refused by her father,” Miles continued. “I am here to rectify all that.”
“But he is your uncle,” Vaughn observed.
“Yes, so he is,” Mr. Lawrence affirmed, “and a very pigheaded man when he chooses.”
“I should not say his Lordship was pigheaded—”
Lord Vaughn began stiffly.
“On the contrary, dear fellow, I think you should indeed. Yes, come to think of it, that is exactly what you should say of him. Frequently,” he added.
“Mr. Lawrence, precisely what is it you have come to say?”
“Ah! More of your refreshing directness,” said Miles, beginning to enjoy himself enormously. “Well, I shall not be backwards in responding in kind, no indeed. I have come, dear sir, to suggest that you elope with Cordelia, and to offer a scheme which will help you to achieve that end.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Miles guessed the stupid shock that he read in Winsted’s face to be sincere. “I suggest, I say, that you elope with her. Run off with her, you know. Marry her.”
“Marry her?”
“Yes, marry her. In spite of her father.”
“In spite of her father!”
“My dear sir,” Miles remonstrated, beginning to feel that his task was more difficult than he had supposed, “surely a man of your—energy and determination, cannot have conceded defeat so easily!”
Lord Vaughn stared, uncomprehending.
“Merely because the lady’s father is opposed to your offer, we need not conclude that the lady herself is as well,” Miles persevered. “On the contrary, I know for a fact that she would be well pleased to be your wife.”
Lord Vaughn found his tongue at last, if not his wits. “Yes, but My dear sir,” he burst out, “to marry her in the face of her father’s displeasure!”
“Yes?” said Miles gently.
“But it is not to be thought of! It is preposterous! It is impossible!” Lord Vaughn exploded. “It is—it is a project which could never occur to Me.”
“Well, my good man,” said Miles patiently, “that is precisely why I have come today. I am fully conscious of the—nicety of your principles, and that they would not allow you to take so bold a step unencouraged, but—”
“They would not—” Lord Vaughn broke in, “they would not allow Me even to conceive of so bold a step, let alone to consider it, let alone to take it.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Lawrence agreed. “But permit me to put the case to you with a somewhat different light upon it. On the one hand, we know it is not in your nature to fly in the face of convention. If a lady’s father forbids you to marry her, very well, then, you will not marry her.”
“Just so,” said his lordship, relieved.
“But my dear Vaughn, pray consider for a moment the other side of this affair. Miss Collins guesses you have offered for her; she guesses her father has refused. Lord Vaughn, she is the picture of grief! I have seen her,” he continued, with unfaltering mendacity. “She is the image of desperation. Now we are both aware, my Lord, how strictly she observes the rules of society-but Love, my dear sir—Love has a code all unto itself, has not it?”
“Has it?” asked Winsted, who had plainly never contemplated the matter before.
“O, I assure you it has! Nothing which is done in the name of love may be done wrongly; no cause taken up in that sacred name may do ill to its champion. On the contrary, dear sir, anything which is done for love and love alone ennobles the doer: it uplifts him! It improves him!”
Lord Vaughn looked as if he would like to believe. Still, “It does?” he said.
“My dear sir, I beg you will trust me.”
Lord Vaughn seemed about to capitulate. His eyes glazed over and he stared off into space, his lower jaw hanging loosely below his upper in an attitude of unusual concentration. But then, all at once, as if—Miles thought disgustedly—he had heard his mother suddenly calling to him, he snapped to attention and raised his quizzing glass coldly. “It is utterly out of the question, Mr. Lawrence.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Miles, unwilling to reconcile himself to defeat.
“I can have nothing more to do with Miss Cordelia until her father comes to Me, apologises, and informs me that he has changed his mind. His conduct was so outrageous, sir,” he continued stiffly, “that I nearly called him out. I checked Myself only because I concluded he was mad, and therefore not responsible for his words.”
Miles was about to argue, but a moment later he gave it up as useless and said, “Then I shall take myself off, my Lord. I hope I have said nothing this afternoon which might impair your opinion of me?”
“Oh no, indeed, My dear sir. Your behaviour has been quite impeccable, I am sure. It is only your uncle…”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Miles, and he was glad, indeed, for he knew Gillian would not accept this as a definitive defeat, and felt certain he would have to deal with Lord Vaughn again before too long. He concluded their conference cordially, therefore, and set off directly for The Haven.
Gillian was displeased. She sat frowning for quite some time, pulling at the narrow blue ribbon that was threaded through her dark locks and thinking profoundly. “It is not good,” she said at last.
Miles bowed in agreement. “But what are we to do, General?”
“I wish you will not call me that,” she said distractedly. “I am afraid that where persuasion has failed, only subterfuge remains. Direct attack is out of the question, of course.”
“Of course,” he assented.
“You have not, I suppose, thought of a scheme?” she asked, looking up at him with a faraway expression in her eyes.
“No. I trust you have, however.”
“Yes, I have indeed. It is most unfortunate,” she emphasized. “I do wish he had gone along with us.”
“I assure you, there was no possibility of moving him,” Mr. Lawrence replied, an edge in his voice.
“O no, I am sure there was not!” Gillian exclaimed sincerely. “I know very well if there had been any chance of swaying his opinion, you would have done it. Still, I cannot like being—underhanded, as it were.”
“My dear ma’am,” Miles said gently, taking her hand, “as long as we are going to do it, there is no sense in delaying. Do, I beg, tell me what you have thought of. You looked quite a madwoman a moment ago.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. I supposed you must have been scheming.”
“Yes I was, doubtless.”
“How agreeable you are today! We really ought to conspire more often; I have never seen you so complaisant.”
Miss Spencer appeared to ignore this sally, but when she spoke, something in her tone betrayed her annoyance. “I plan, quite simply, to place Cordelia and Vaughn in a compromising position. Then, of course, we will arrange for them to be—surprised.”
“Miss Spencer!” he cried. “How positively shocking! Who would think to look at you what devious methods you employ?”
“Can employ, sir,” she corrected, “when left with no other means.”
“There is something curiously feminine about such contrivance,” Miles remarked musingly.
“Mr. Lawrence, we are not going to embark upon a discussion of the female character. I am merely going to point out to you, sir,” she said firmly, “that women are commonly deprived of every other possible means except contrivance, and we are going to let it go at that.”
“Indeed, General!” he responded, with a mock salute.
“O, give over, I beg,” she said irritably. “Now Mr. Lawrence—”
“Miles,” he interjected.
“Miles,” she said, capitulating as she had once before, “I am going to ask you to get Lord Vaughn into a carriage and to deposit him in a private parlour of an inn in—let us say Cobham in Surrey, for convenience. Yes,” she continued, speaking to herself, “the White Lion there. That will do very well.”
“And then?” he prompted.
“And then—well I shall have contrived by that time to have Cordelia waiting in the parlour. And then we shall let some time pass by, and then—we surprise them.”
“And how do you propose I induce his lordship to drive into Surrey with me?”
“O, Miles, your imagination!” she said impatiently. “At times I think you haven’t any at all. There must be something…” She paused and sat awhile, thinking hard. Mr. Lawrence turned this hesitation to good account, using it to take a firmer grip of her hand with both of his. Suddenly she pulled it away from him, quite without meaning to, exclaiming, “That’s it! Of course, the very thing!”
“Is it?” Miles inquired humbly.
“Yes, but don’t you see—what, would you say, is Lord Vaughn’s favourite activity?”
“Boring people to the point of suicide?” Miles guessed at random. “Inventing elaborate phrases to couch rude insinuations?”
“O no, Miles!” she said; “but you have the right notion…it is talking. Talking, talking, and talking. Speechifying. Orating.”
“Very well,” he agreed, “call it that.” He reached for her hand again but she was too agitated to let it lie still.
“Don’t you see? You must tell Lord Vaughn that his services are urgently needed—that there is…an uprising, a riot in Cobham, and that he must come to speak to the people, to calm them before there is a real disturbance.”
“Do you think he will believe me?”
“Of course he will, if you do it quickly enough. And his estate is in Surrey, is not it, so he will feel obliged to go with you.”
“And what if he chuses to travel alone?”
“You must not permit it,” she said seriously. “O, Miles, it would ruin everything. Do not you feel capable of persuading him, with that tale to assist you?”
Mr. Lawrence was silent for a moment, his dark eyes gazing pensively into space. At last he turned them upon her—and she felt, in spite of herself, a little thrill that was at once frightening and familiar—and said, “I believe I can. Yes, I believe I can.”
“Then it is all settled,” she said with satisfaction. “It will not be difficult to find some excuse for Cordelia…I need not even tell her which direction we are travelling in. When shall we do it?”
“My dear Miss Spencer,” said Miles, who had evidently not been listening, “there is one circumstance which I believe you have overlooked—difficult though that is to credit.”
“And what is that?” she asked anxiously.
“Merely that—” But here he brought himself up short and looked at her, a quizzical expression in his eyes. “My dear Miss Spencer,” he repeated, “I think I will not tell you.”
“Not tell me!” she cried. “But if it means the scheme will go awry—!”
“No, it does not mean that. It is—something outside your project altogether.” He hesitated and said rather dreamily, “You will learn of it by and by.”
All Gillian’s efforts to elicit this forgotten detail from him, and all her attempts that night to imagine what it could be, proved vain. Miles would say nothing, and Gillian could not guess. At last she gave it up, and forgot it altogether.
There were other things to absorb her attention. The Countess of Ransford, whom they had seen several nights before at a ball given by that lady to launch her daughter into society, had spoken to Gillian at length concerning a fire screen she had observed at The Haven on the night of the girls’ come-out. It had stood to one side, of course, for there had been no fire that evening, but she had taken a strong fancy to it nonetheless.
“I should like so much,” she informed Gillian sweetly, “to look at it again. The workmanship! It is embroidered, you know—do you know the one I mean, dear?”
“Yes,” Gillian admitted uncomfortably, for she could see the shape of things to come, “it is a very pretty one.”
“Is it the work of one of the girls?” the Countess pursued.
“I—I really do not know, my Lady.”
“I would give anything to see it again,” said the Countess, who had no way of knowing what havoc she was wreaking in Gillian’s mind. “I cannot tell you how forcibly it struck me! I even dreamt of it, last week. I should like to make one just like it.”
“I am delighted your Ladyship was so pleased with it,” said Gillian carefully. “Perhaps if you would care to call some morning—”
“No, wait a moment!” said the Countess, as though just inspired—and it was precisely this inspiration that Gillian had feared. “I have a better idea.” Miss Spencer braced herself. “How would it be if—Ransford is so fond of the Viscount, you know—why do not we arrange a small party, a card party, for some evening this week? And then I shall have leisure to study the screen.”
“What a delightful scheme!” said Gillian, with a duplicity that she herself found quite disgusting in the face of the Countess’s sincere ingenuousness. Since she had very little choice, she continued, “Perhaps Thursday?”
“Thursday!” crowed the Countess, as if this were a brilliant suggestion. “The very thing! I shall look forward to it so, my dear,” she added, squeezing Gillian’s cold hands in her warm ones.
“So shall we,” Gillian had agreed, smiling with an effort.
And now it was Wednesday, and she had still discovered no plausible excuse for preventing the Countess from asking to see the rest of The Haven. It would be a most reasonable request and, coming from a woman as domestically oriented as the Countess, a most natural one. How on earth to say No? This was the question that had been gnawing at her; at last she took it to Valerian.
