The Love Child, page 23
“Say it! Say it!” she urged breathlessly.
“How I love you!” he brought out at once.
The contessa turned her violet eyes heavenward. “Ah!” she sighed.
“I have not offended you?” he hastened to ask.
“Offend me? Never,” said she, dropping her eyes to the carpet. “Alas, how cruelly women suffer,” she murmured.
“Madam, I hope you do not suffer!”
“Ah, no more, no more…But I did—ever so terribly—before you spoke today.”
Chauncey was both astonished and emboldened by this information. “I shall never be happy until you have forgiven me, my lady. Tell me, can you forgive me? Can you ever?”
She gazed at him languidly. “I can…since we are…we are,” she faltered.
“Yes, dear madam? We are—what?”
“We are to be married!” she brought out at last.
His eyes flew open. “I beg your pardon?”
“But good sir—surely that is what you intended when you began this declaration to me? Is it not?”
“It is…er—well, indeed I should adore to mar-marry you,” he said, stammering wildly, “but my…er…my family! My parents! They will never allow it,” he cried, delighted to think of such a solution. He had considered doing many things with the contessa, but walking to that altar was not one of them.
The contessa (practiced in this art) forced a few tears into her eyes. “And you allow them—you permit them—to ruin our happiness?” she reproached him.
“Allow…? Never!” he replied stoutly. “Only—” he floundered about, searching desperately for something to say, “only I think we must wait until I have attained my majority,” he concluded, inspired by necessity.
She pouted. “You don’t love me,” she accused him.
“Oh, but I do, I do!” he contradicted, tugging nervously at his cravat. His neck, his forehead, his palms—everything, it seemed to him—had gone damp and cold. This was not turning out at all well.
“Then come and kiss me,” she wheedled, presenting a rose-tinted cheek for this purpose.
“Oh, but—oh, dear,” said he, utterly at a loss. Full of misgivings, he minced awkwardly over to her and bent to peck at her cheek.
“My darling!” she said suddenly, throwing both arms round him as soon as he had come near. He pulled away from her, but she held fast, apparently trying to draw him down onto her lap.
“Help! Oh, help!” cried the poor lad.
“Help?” she echoed, as if shocked.
“Oh, no, I mean—oh, help! Somebody, help ho!” he cried again, struggling as desperately as any maid in a ballad.
“You do not wish to kiss me?” the contessa inquired, maintaining a firm grip on his shoulders.
“Ju-Jupiter! Let me go,” said he, for all reply.
She released him at last, giving him a push onto the sofa opposite. “You will not kiss me, you will not elope with me, you do not love me,” she summed up, magnificently. “I do not love you either, then.”
“Oh, dear! My good lady—”
“No,” she broke in, tossing her head. “I’ll hear none of it. Go from me, and never speak to me of this again.”
“But madam,” he hedged, disliking to retreat in such disorder and disgrace.
She turned her splendid head away from him. “I could almost believe, sir, that you intended to—to put a stain on my virtue,” she told him. “How should you like it if someone behaved so to your sister?”
Chauncey considered this question and recognized (though just in the nick of time) that it was rhetorical. He had been going to say—truthfully—that he would murder the man who thought of Amabel so dishonourably. “If I have displeased you so, madam, I am profoundly sorry,” he answered finally. Actually, the only thing that made him sorry was that he had ever made her acquaintance at all. In light of what had passed between them, moreover, his fondest wish now was to remove himself from her presence at once.
“Oh, la!” sniffed the contessa. “That is so like men. An apology will repair any injury—that is what you all believe. Mr. Stanton, I must beg you to depart.”
Chauncey bowed, gracelessly as usual. “Your desire is my command,” said he, feeling that he was getting off easily.
“Go, go, go, and not another word!” she shrieked all at once, as if in a sudden fit of temper. Startled at her violence, the youth scrambled out of the Rose Saloon, and never stopped running till he had reached his own bed-chamber. Once there he took a vow that he would never—never ever—speak intimately to a woman again until he had learned how to judge better whether or not she cared for him. He could have sworn Lady di Tremini despised him—he had never been so overset in his life as when she informed him otherwise.
Mr. Stanton’s sister Amabel had undergone a romantic interview during the same hour as the one he spent with the contessa, but hers was rather different in tone. She was with Lord Wyborn, of course; he had begged her to meet him, at a certain hour, in the conservatory. There was something on his mind which he wished to say to Miss Stanton, and the sooner the better.
In point of fact there were two things on Lord Wyborn’s mind, but one of them was of such a nature as to forbid his mentioning it to Amabel. This was the problem of her dowry; it had become a problem, indeed, since his receipt of it had been delayed for many weeks. Lord Stanton promised it was coming, and Wyborn did not disbelieve him. However, he would be careful not to tie the knot with Amabel until he had seen the sum in full.
The point which he did wish to discuss with his betrothed had to do, as he soon told her, with the difference in their ages. “Many people,” he informed her, striding heavily up and down the room, “will believe I have been unkind in marrying you. Many people. They will believe you are too young for me, consider that your parents sold you off, pity you for your plight. You will excuse me if I speak bluntly,” he added, staring down at her with his heavy-lidded green eyes.
“Yes, indeed,” said she earnestly, as he waited for a response. Now that she had got accustomed to the idea of marrying him, Amabel was not quite so frightened of him. He did seem to her rather large, however; he had always seemed rather large to her.
“Very good then,” he continued. “You must attempt to take no notice of such whispers. You and I shall be very happy together, so long as we do not regard those murmurs. I like you, Miss Stanton; I tell you to your head. You are very pretty, and very docile. That is well in a young girl. I like you very well.”
Amabel coloured. “I beg your pardon, dear sir,” she said, “but if I may be so bold—for what reason is it that you never smile when we are together? Since you like me so well—as I believe you must, to have offered for me…” Her voice faded as the conviction grew upon her that she had spoke too daringly.
But Wyborn, far from being displeased, laughed aloud. “Very good, missy; that is very well asked! If I like you so well, why do I not smile?” His raw, ruddy complexion brightened as he chuckled over this. “Damme if I know,” he told her at last, turning warmer eyes upon her than he had ever done before.
Miss Stanton’s blue eyes, on the other hand, grew large and round.
“What is it? Oh, my, doesn’t your papa say damme?” he guessed.
Amabel swallowed. “In fact, sir, I do not believe he does,” she told him timidly.
Wyborn laughed again. “I will tell you a secret, my dear. Your father does say such things—he does indeed. Only he does not do so where you may hear him. That is very good between a father and his daughter, but I do not like it between husband and wife.” He paused, musing. “Miss Stanton, could you grow accustomed to hearing such words from me? Only when we are alone together, of course—and naturally you will never employ them yourself.”
Amabel rather enjoyed this notion. She had never thought much about the freedom that might exist between man and wife (she was not given to thinking overmuch, as we know), but now that it was brought up to her, she found it quite appealing. “That will be perfectly acceptable, sir,” she said sweetly, adding, “I am very glad you like me.”
Lord Wyborn surveyed her. “Damned if I wouldn’t marry you without a dowry,” he muttered, mainly to himself. He went on, more audibly, “My dear, now I have told you I like you, I think you ought to tell me if you care for me at all? How do you feel toward me? It will not alter our plans, whatever you say,” he added rapidly. “You may be as honest as you like.”
Amabel, whose colour had begun to recede, flushed again. “Well, if you truly wish to know—”
“I do,” he interrupted; “and not such pretty speeches as we made to one another when I offered for you. That was form; now we are betrothed, we can be plain and straight with each other. That is what I want.”
“Oh, dear, sir. Well then, since you ask…I am just the—just the smallest bit—you will not be angry with me, my lord?” she broke off abruptly.
Wyborn promised her he would not be angry.
“In that case, sir, I may tell you I am just the slightest bit frightened of you. Though not so much as before,” she hastened to add. “When I first made your acquaintance I was terrified.” Having said this, Miss Stanton went quite crimson.
“You were?” Wyborn took up, surprised. “And what was it—or is it—that frightens you so? My manner? My title? My—”
“Your proportions, sir,” said she, in a tiny voice.
“My—! Damme, if that don’t beat all!” he burst out, laughing hugely. “You’re a woman in a million, that’s all there is to it. Where else should I find a girl to tell me such things?”
“Then you aren’t angry?” she asked.
“Not a bit of it,” said he. “But there is one thing I should like to know yet, and that is if you like me at all in spite of that. Do you? Just a trifle?”
“Oh, dear, yes sir!” said she truthfully. “When you laugh I like you very much; even when you smile. I hope you will laugh a good deal after we are married.”
“How could I fail to do so, so long as you are my bride?” he countered. “And if you learn to like me better—at other times, perhaps…Will you tell me?”
Amabel nodded affirmatively.
“Right away,” he stipulated. “No delaying. I want to know how you feel the moment you know yourself. And I do hope you will like me better; do you know why?”
“So we shall be happy together?” she hazarded.
“Because I am becoming tremendously fond of you,” he told her, and though Amabel could not quite return his feelings just then (she would be unable to do so for some while), she did begin to feel a very great deal happier about her impending nuptials from that moment forth. She felt safe when she thought of Wyborn, and for so meek a lamb as Amabel, to feel safe is no light matter. As time went on she grew to love Wyborn more and more, and she thought her father a perfect genius for foreseeing how this would be.
Her father, in the meantime, was learning to think of himself as a very poor protector indeed. Naturally it was not his fault he and his wife were being blackmailed, but he seemed to himself to deal with it rather ill. After much discussion, he and his lady decided to implore the countess to wait for her money until after Christmas. What advantage this delay would give them neither could have said, for eventually they must either sell Baddesleigh or throw themselves upon Lady Tremini’s mercy (if she had any, which it appeared she did not). There was something comforting to both of them, however, in the idea that no matter what happened, it would happen after the great holiday, and Lady Stanton’s relief was so palpable that she even managed to come down to dine with the others during the next fortnight.
12
Miss Cawley and Mr. Longstreth announced their betrothal the day after it was contracted—privately, at first, to Roger, and then publicly at dinner.
“Someone is missing,” Lady Stanton murmured to her husband while healths to the happy couple were being proposed and drunk. “Who is it?”
Lord Stanton considered. “Lady Louisa?”
“No, she is there—to your left,” said his wife. The absence made her feel strangely uneasy, though she could not for the life of her recall whose absence it was.
“Lady Stickney?” Stanton suggested.
“No, Walker—you are not even looking,” said Lady Stanton, mildly annoyed. “Lady Stickney is right there—across from us. Who can it be? How vexatious this is!” she added, lifting her glass with the others, and obligingly donning a smile.
“I think it may only be your fancy, my dear,” said his lordship. “Everyone seems to be here that I can remember.”
“Miss Chilton!” cried Lady Stanton suddenly, though not loudly. “I knew there was someone! How extraordinary, that she should be absent now. She and Miss Cawley are particularly intimate; I’ve noticed it.”
“Perhaps she is indisposed,” said Lord Stanton, who was not in a position to know, yet, that Lotta had left Grasmere entirely.
“I don’t think so,” said his lady, abruptly; then, “Why did I say that, I wonder? How on earth should I know?”
“That is more than I can guess, my dear,” said Stanton.
“But I have the most curious feeling…I am certain she is not ill. In fact, I am fairly sure she is not even in the castle tonight.”
Lord Stanton shrugged. “Do you like her very much? If not, it makes no difference where she is.”
“Like her?” Lady Stanton echoed vaguely. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose so. She is agreeable.”
“Well, then, perhaps she is only abed with the headache,” her husband said soothingly. “She will be down soon enough; you’ll see.”
Lady Stanton shook her head slightly while they drank the next toast, as if to indicate that Lotta Chilton would not be down, but also that the circumstance had little importance to her ladyship. The healths continued a long while (Miss Cawley was very well-liked by all the party), and the duchess announced, at the end of them, that a ball in the couple’s honour was to be held Tuesday week, just a few days before Christmas.
The ball came and went with little to mark it out in the minds of the merry-makers. Jessica sparkled and teased, Algernon constantly at her side; Lord Cawley made a speech in his sister’s honour. Lady Madeline Olney flirted madly, as did Sir Francis Olney; the Contessa di Tremini persuaded Sir Isaac Bridwell to gamble at cards with her, and left him nearly five hundred pounds the poorer—but since she did something of the sort almost every night, this was hardly remarkable. His Grace of Karr strove valiantly to enjoy himself, but Jessica (if no one else) could see he thought longingly of Lotta. He was not alone in this, for Miss Cawley (affectionate friend that she truly was) thought of Lotta too. There was a third person at the ball, indeed, who thought of Miss Chilton, but she thought very differently than these first two. This was the duchess herself, of course, and she mused upon Lotta’s removal from the scene with deep satisfaction. It vexed her to be uninformed of Miss Chilton’s precise reasons for withdrawing from Grasmere (Karr continued reticent on the subject), but even without knowing why she had gone, Her Grace was glad to reflect that she was, in fact, gone at last. She hoped now to persuade the Earl of Marland to return—or at least, to send Lady Henrietta back—and though this seemed a difficult project, she had effected greater miracles of diplomacy in her day. She meant to write to the earl at the start of the new year; for now, it was sufficient that Lotta had vanished.
The evening following the ball was the one marked out for the beginning of Mr. Faust’s recital. This event had been anticipated by many among the company with extreme impatience; Mr. Ralph Hightower, in particular, grew increasingly jubilant as the appointed hour approached. “He looks like he could tell ghastly stories if he wanted to, don’t he?” Mr. Hightower inquired, that day, of Cosmo Remington.
“Who’s that?” Mr. Remington had asked. “Septimus Faust?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hightower, his eyes asparkle. “I could swear he’s grown thinner this past week; I’ve been watching him. It comes of brooding on something grotesque—that’s what it is. I tell you, he’ll chill us all to the bone!”
“Mr. Faust?” repeated Remington. “Chill us to the bone?”
“Gracious, yes! I expect it will be gruesome, don’t you?”
“Gruesome?” repeated the thin-blooded Cosmo. “Well, I should certainly hope not!”
Mr. Hightower stared at him, his eyes round in his otherwise blank face. “But what is a ghost story if it is not gruesome? It must be gruesome…and grisly…and gory…and—”
“Dear sir, please,” Cosmo interrupted him. “If that’s what it’s to be I shan’t listen. Grasmere Castle is peculiar enough, without allowing someone to wear one’s nerves raw simply for a lark!”
But Mr. Remington did listen—everyone listened, almost. Mr. Faust had been so silent about the tale he meant to tell (he had said no more than those few remarks he made when the history was first requested) that everyone’s curiosity was piqued. Even the duchess, who generally retired early now that the short winter days had come, sat up near the fireside to hear him. Mr. Faust himself sat directly next the hearth; the others drew as close to him as they could. He had arrayed himself in the most sombre hues—on purpose, no doubt—and eyed his assembling audience soberly, as if warning them that they were about to hear horrors, and ought to decide now whether to go or stay. His complexion, never rosy, was almost as dead white as the high points of his collar: not even the sharp heat of the fire could bring any colour to his cheeks. His dark eyes, catching the glow of the blaze, reflected its light almost feverishly. He did not smile, let alone grin, from the moment he entered the great drawing-room.
“Going to scare us, eh, Faust?” Sir Isaac asked him, seating himself in a comfortable chair.
Mr. Faust merely nodded, slowly.
“Not a very civil thing to do,” remarked Sir Francis Olney. The atmosphere in the drawing-room had already become a bit nervous, and his comment was prompted by a desire to deny the tension.
