The Love Child, page 6
“And who will you have for your Mirabell?” he pursued, ignoring her rather uncharitable allusion to the pleasure-seeking countess—it was not, at any rate, uttered in a spiteful tone, or with a malicious intention.
“Why yourself, Mr. Longstreth,” she exclaimed, fixing him with an exaggerated look of appeal. “Surely you would not disappoint me—!”
“Never in the world,” he was obliged to say. “I must caution you, however, that I am a very poor player.”
“Oh, cautions, cautions! I hear altogether too much of such things at Grasmere.” Miss Cawley’s spirits lifted—they had never been depressed in the first place—as she talked of the delights of Congreve, and assured her companion he should not regret having accepted a rôle in the projected performance. She chattered on and on about it, attempting to persuade Lady Louisa and Mr. Remington to assume rôles as well, and wondering if the duchess would be so kind as to have a platform built for their stage. She was still prattling when the coach drew to a halt, apparently in the middle of nowhere. The driver descended and informed the occupants of the carriage that he could proceed no further; the remainder of the journey must be made on foot.
“On foot!” Lady Louisa echoed, with genuine dismay. “My dear Mr. Longstreth, you did not mention this.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I thought, since we were going to visit a tree, you would understand…However, there is no need of your going any further. I say, Cosmo—”
“I will stay with Lady Louisa,” Mr. Remington anticipated him. “Frankly, I don’t care above half for Robin Hood.”
“Shh, please! His spirit may be near us.”
“Really, Algie—” Mr. Remington began, in accents of mild exasperation.
“Hasn’t he become a fiend about it?” Jessica agreed. “I never heard anything so tiresome.”
Mr. Longstreth maintained his dignity. “Belabour me as you like,” he said. “Call me and blame me as you will. Only don’t, for heaven’s sake, disturb the rustic hero.”
“You are doing it a bit brown,” Jessica muttered, as he helped her down from the coach. The driver was to guide them to the Larder, since Algernon himself had never been there; the three of them consequently set off down a little path, leaving Lady Louisa and the obliging Cosmo to amuse themselves as they could.
“The devil fly away with this troublesome tree,” Miss Cawley ejaculated when they had walked some ten minutes. “Where is it, after all?”
Algernon was about to launch into another lecture on the inadvisability of petulant denunciations, but the coachman forestalled him. “Just a few more yards, miss,” said he. “It’s up about here somewhere.” He then wandered ahead a bit, as if making certain of his direction.
“I’ll lay a pound he’s got us lost,” Jessica whispered.
“No such thing,” her companion replied, moving suddenly off to the left of the path. “Here it is—this must be it,” he cried, rushing up to an enormously lofty tree, and sticking his head at once into the hollow in its massive trunk. “Oh dear—it isn’t much,” he said a moment later, turning to face her. “Of course it has a history, but it is, after all, only an old tree. I’m awfully sorry; I dragged you all the way out here, too.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said carelessly. She walked round the oak, trailing a hand along the rough bark, and arrived at the hollow opening. “I think this is very jolly,” she went on bracingly; she hated disappointments, and had suddenly determined to like the Larder very much.
“Oh, well,” he answered listlessly. “Just a tree with a hole in the middle of it.”
“No, indeed! It’s a capital tree,” she insisted. “It must have made a famous hiding-place; just think of all the things that have been stashed in here.”
“Only game, I should think. Rabbits, or deer. It is called his larder, you know.”
“Yes, but he must have used it for other things as well, don’t you think? Jewels, and gold, and—my goodness, what’s this?” she exclaimed suddenly. She had put her hand into the cavity, and had been rummaging about, tapping the interior walls and so forth, while she spoke. At this point she removed her hand and drew out with it a small object, thoroughly encrusted with dirt.
“A stone?” Mr. Longstreth suggested, without enthusiasm.
“Not at all! Look, it’s a…an—” She rubbed the thing, whatever it was, in the folds of a handkerchief. “Mr. Longstreth,” she said, very slowly; “it’s a ring!”
“Yes, yes; I confess I was foolish to bring you all the way out here—it is not necessary to impress that upon me now.”
“Mr. Longstreth, a ring!” she repeated, holding it up before him.
Algernon refused, however, to look at it. “Are my apologies not sufficient?” he persisted, his eyes on the ground. “I beg you will not tease me any more.”
“Mr. Longstreth!” she fairly shouted, grasping his hand and forcing into it the treasure she had found.
Now he could not help but listen to her. In the palm of his hand, just as she had said, lay a heavy gold ring—a man’s ring, though without a seal. “Damme,” he breathed softly, examining the trinket. Dirt still clung to it, but the antique sheen it would reveal when it had been polished could already be guessed at. “Damme,” he repeated, “it is a ring—and a century old at least, I should guess.”
“A century!” she scoffed. “More like five or six, my dear sir. I’ll lay a pony Robin Hood himself wore it.”
“Ah now, merely because the ring was in this tree does not mean Robin Hood put it there! More likely some gang of marauders—some modern gang, that is—”
“I know Robin Hood touched it; I can feel it fairly vibrate,” she interrupted him, rolling the ring about slowly within a half-closed hand.
“Let me try,” he said, reaching for the ring.
She handed it to him. “You won’t feel anything,” she warned him. “Your senses are too dulled for such fine tremors.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he agreed, suddenly depositing the ring in a pocket of his jacket. “I sensed nothing.”
“What have you done with it?” she cried at once. “Give it to me.”
“Oh, no, Miss Cawley, I think you had far better let me keep it for you. I’ll engage for its safety.”
“I found it—I want it,” she insisted, flaring slightly.
“Really, Miss Cawley,” he admonished, turning back down the path toward the waiting carriage.
She ran after him and caught at his elbow, grasping it firmly. Her bright, pretty features had gone quite hard with anger. “Really what, prithee?”
“Really you make too much of it.” He looked down at her, as unruffled as she was excited.
“Mr. Longstreth, I will thank you to give me my ring,” she forced out, from between clenched teeth.
He stared at her a moment longer, then gave a laugh. “As you like, ma’am. I only thought that if it did have some historical value, you would prefer to be relieved of responsibility for it.”
“I am not frightened of responsibility,” she replied, taking the ring he finally offered to her. She slipped it on to the first finger of her right hand—it was made for the last finger of a much larger one, but fit very well what it now encircled—and surveyed it with proprietorial satisfaction.
“It is a little large for you, but comely,” he said.
“Kindly keep away from it in future,” said she, still miffed.
“Ah now, Miss Cawley,” he remonstrated, while—the coachman following them—they retraced their steps to the road, “if we are to play Millamant and Mirabell, we must learn to deal better with one another.”
“Come to think of it, you will make a much better Witwoud. We will ask the duke to act Mirabell’s part.”
“Have you designs on the duke, then?” he cried.
“Had I any on you?”
She was angry, but not so much so that her temper had not disappeared by the time the carriage began its homeward journey. She showed her golden treasure to Mr. Remington and to Lady Louisa as proudly as any bride who ever displayed a similar token to admiring friends, and chattered gaily about the deep inquiries she intended to make into the possible history of the prize. “You know, s-some people do think Robin Hood lived in Yorkshire,” Mr. Remington informed her after a time. He followed this pronouncement with a broad wink to Mr. Longstreth—a wink that, in spite of its broadness, Miss Cawley did not notice.
“Fustian,” she retorted at once. “Everyone knows he lived in Sherwood Forest. And how could the Sheriff of Nottingham have known him, if he had not?”
“That is a very pertinent question, ma’am. And yet, they do persist in believing so.”
“I don’t care what they believe,” she said stubbornly—she could be stubborn, indeed. “People believe in all sorts of nonsense. Mr. Longstreth believes in ghosts.”
“Don’t you?” asked Cosmo, surprised.
“Not another one!”
“But madam, surely—!”
“But sir, surely not! Lady Louisa doesn’t believe in ghosts—now do you, dear ma’am?”
“Oh, my dear,” said this lady; “I am not quite positive whether I do or I don’t. I thought I didn’t, but last night I heard something that sounded so much like one, I think I may after all. I was dreadfully frightened. I was obliged to awaken my abigail.”
“Poor girl,” exclaimed Jessica. “Not but what I am certain you are an excellent mistress most of the time, my lady, but what you heard was without doubt only the wind.”
“So I told myself!” Lady Louisa agreed, her pale, watery eyes opening wide into her pasty complexion. “Yet the more I listened, the more certain I became it was more than that. Even my maid thought she heard something.”
“New places are always attended with new noises,” Miss Cawley advised her. “I myself sat up writing half the night last night, and I heard nothing at all.”
“Perhaps you were in another wing,” her ladyship suggested plausibly. “Where is your bed-chamber?”
Mr. Algernon Longstreth, had anyone observed him, might have been noticed to listen very attentively for her answer. “In the corridor above the library—on the east side.”
“Well! That explains everything,” said Lady Louisa. “I am at the other end of the castle from you. The spirit probably saw your light burning, and passed you by.”
“My dear Mr. Longstreth—Mr. Remington,” appealed Miss Cawley, “do, for her own sake, reassure Lady Louisa that no ghosts frequent Grasmere Castle.”
“But that would be prevarication,” said Algernon gravely, while Cosmo nodded vigorously. “I am sorry to disoblige you.”
“Oh—goodness!” she finally exclaimed, quite frustrated. “If there is a ghost, I hope it haunts you.”
The gentlemen appeared undaunted by this threat, yet they gave no sign of doubting its possibility. Jessica concluded that she had stumbled, by chance, on three very superstitious individuals; she forgot the matter altogether by the time she reached her brother. She exhibited the ring to him, and recounted the circumstances of its discovery, a performance she repeated (for the benefit of the general company) after dinner. It was roundly marvelled at, and wondered over—no one except the duke, in fact, appeared to question her theory of its origin.
“One would think it would have eroded a good deal more in the course of so many years,” he suggested. “Should you like me to send it to Nottingham, to have it examined by an expert?”
“No, thank you, Your Grace.” She had grown extremely attached to it; she held it up now so that the smooth old gold gleamed in the candlelight. “I mean to wear it myself, always. When we go to Goose-Fair, perhaps, we will have it appraised.”
“I doubt the jeweller will keep regular hours during the fair.”
“Then we won’t. Anyway, I don’t want to part with it,” said she capriciously.
“You understand, madam,” said Mr. Longstreth, who stood near them, “that if you do wear the ring—and if it does have something to do with Robin Hood—you encourage his spirit to visit you.”
The duke stared in unmistakable surprise at his old friend and shooting-companion. “Algie—” he began, in a tone of reproach.
A quelling look was all he received for reply, but it sufficed to stifle him. In a short while, these two gentlemen departed together for the billiard-room, where Karr’s unvoiced question could be answered; the other guests floated here and there, discussing what on-dits had been culled from the most recent London papers, arguing heatedly about politics, and playing at whist and piquet. Lady Madeline Olney, who made no secret of the fact that she constantly cuckolded her husband, flirted strenuously with Roger Cawley; while Sir Francis Olney, equally careless about the small matter of marriage vows, sat up past three playing cards with the Countess Tremini. This lady was so beautiful, thought he, as to make losing money almost palatable—and lose it he did, until she finally took pity on him and suggested they retire. “After all, it is quite late,” she remarked, to spare him embarrassment. With this she feigned a yawn—a gesture which was, with her, not a loose and homely gape, but a sweet, deliberate stretching of full pink lips, till they had achieved a perfect O. Mr. Septimus Faust, who had also played with them (on the winning side, which was very fortunate for him, as he had no money to lose) observed the deep, delectable stretch, and approved it. The contessa was suffered to quit her companions in spite of their profound appreciation of her charms, and pursued her solitary way upstairs.
There was no incident of note, during the evening, but one: when the countess arrived at her chamber she discovered waiting for her there a note, sealed but not franked. “I don’t know when it came in, your la’ship,” said her sleepy abigail, “or how. It may have been when I was at dinner; for I’m sure I saw no messenger.”
The contessa told her it made no matter, and presented her elaborate coiffure to be unpinned and prepared for bed. While she bent her head to her handmaid’s fingers, her own broke the seal of the missive she held, and she scanned the page with a face full of interest.
“You shall receive what you desire,” was all the letter said; “but I must have more time. Please do not be cruel. A courier departs for London tonight.”
There was no salutation, and no signature. The hand was plain, dark, and legible, of a sort which might have belonged to any educated person. The contessa read the brief message thrice; then she put it away. On her lips was a very pleased, very genuine, very satisfied smile. It lingered on her mouth till she had gone to bed, and even while she dreamed.
4
“Well, I can’t think it’s very considerate!” Miss Jessica Cawley exclaimed at breakfast three days later to the gentleman on her left.
“Remington,” said Algernon Longstreth—for it was he whom she addressed, “Miss Cawley can’t think it’s considerate.”
“Sh-she ain’t obliged to,” said Remington. “It ain’t considerate, anyway.”
“There you are, Miss Cawley,” parroted Algernon. “It ain’t considerate.”
“Couldn’t you put her off—just till this evening? Today of all days!”
“A fellow can’t put his mother off,” Mr. Longstreth informed her. “It isn’t good form. Besides, she only stops with the Stepneys this one day; then she’s off to Scotland.”
“Invite her to stop here,” Jessica suggested. “Karr won’t mind at all, and she’s certain to enjoy it.”
“But then she couldn’t see Captain Stepney.”
“Wouldn’t she rather see you? You are her son.”
“She’d rather see us both,” said Algernon. “And Mrs. Stepney too. They came out together, at the same ball.”
“Well, it didn’t do Mrs. Stepney much good that I can see,” Jessica replied crossly. “She appears to have married Captain Stepney, and to have got stuck out here in Nottinghamshire forever. Don’t they pass the season in town?”
“No,” he said simply. “That’s why my mother must stop with them, and not here. They don’t see each other all year. She hasn’t seen me in months either,” he added reflectively.
“I can scarcely deem that a hardship,” Jessica returned, with customary impudence.
“There’s no understanding a mother’s love,” said Longstreth.
“Precisely.” Miss Cawley fell in silence to buttering a piece of toast, out of which she took a few slow bites. “Well,” she continued at last, “it is your misfortune more than anyone else’s. You will just miss the fair altogether. I hope your mother appreciates it.”
“No doubt she has made such sacrifices for me, in her time,” Algernon replied calmly. “Anyway, you will go and tell me all about it, won’t you?”
“It isn’t the same as if you came,” she persisted.
“Oh, Cosmo will look after you,” he said carelessly. “And Karr will see to your safety, and Miss Chilton will amuse you. She is quite diverting, in truth.”
“Perhaps,” was all she would say.
“If you don’t care for her company, you may keep near to Lady Henrietta,” Algernon suggested.
“Worse and worse,” murmured Jessica, who had already heard as many of Henrietta’s platitudes as she cared to listen to. “I shall stay with Roger all day, and ignore everybody else.”
“Don’t you like Mr. Remington?” that gentleman’s friend inquired.
“Not much,” she muttered, but immediately smiled at Cosmo and placed a neat hand on his arm. “I only said that to be perverse, you know,” she informed him, smiling charmingly. “I adore to annoy Mr. Longstreth.”
“Yes, yes; no matter.”
“Mr. Remington, would you do me the kindness to play Petulant in ‘The Way of the World’?”
“Ah, th-that is something else!” he cried. “It seems to me I have sufficient rôles to play already,” he added, with a sidewards glance at Algernon.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Miss Cawley.
“He means he is obliged to act as my shooting-companion, don’t you, Cosmo?” Mr. Longstreth interrupted hastily. “Mr. Remington loathes shooting, really—thinks it’s cruel. But I make him come out with me. He has such a capital way with the dogs.”
