Chapter IX headpiece
Madame knew him at a glance. To some extent she had been prepared for his coming by Jack's previous visit. As Jack was acquainted with Sir Peter, it was quite likely Lord Otford was also, and nothing was more probable than that he should come to look up his old friend. Nevertheless this sudden confrontation startled her, and she could not suppress a little "Oh!" of surprise.
Lord Otford, on his part, was too much occupied with his own anger, his outraged dignity, to pay more than very superficial attention to her. Moreover she had changed a great deal more than he. He had left her, a mere strip of a girl, and now she was a dignified and very beautiful woman. He was not thinking of Lucy Pryor at all at the moment, while her thoughts, if the truth must be told, were full of the Jack Sayle of old days. So they began their little duel with unequal weapons. Madame was absolutely self-possessed: Otford could not suppress a certain amount of nervousness in the presence of this calm and stately lady who was so utterly different from anything he had expected. However, he pulled himself together and put on his grandest and most overwhelming manner.
"I am the trespasser," he said, with a condescending bow, in answer to her startled cry. She inclined her head very slightly, and turned to go.
"May I detain you a moment?" said he, quickly.
She stopped and half turned towards him. "I am at a loss—" she said coldly, with raised eyebrows.
He explained. "I heard you calling your daughter." Then, very stiffly, "I presume you are Madame—ah—" he made pretence to consult the anonymous letter; this haughty person should know she was not of sufficient importance for him even to remember her name, "Madame Lachesnais."
Madame bowed almost imperceptibly and something very like a mischievous smile lurked in the corners of her lips.
"I am Lord Otford—" he gave his name quite simply, as a gentleman should, yet he managed to convey that it was a great name and that he expected the announcement of it to make its effect.
Madame made a slight movement with her hand as if she were brushing away something of no moment whatever; as if she declined to receive a name which could have no importance for her; as if she did n't care whether his name were Otford or Snooks. This disconcerted him. It was a new experience, and it was unpleasant. For the sake of something to say he pointed to the seat under the tree. "Ah—pray be seated." Madame saw the advantage she had already gained. She spoke as she might have addressed a poor beetle: "What you have to say can be of so little consequence—"
Lord Otford flushed angrily. Here was he, a great nobleman with a grievance, and this totally insignificant woman was treating him like a child! He spoke with some warmth. "I beg your pardon! What I have to say is of the utmost consequence."
"I shall be surprised," said Madame—"and I am waiting."
Lord Otford was still fuming. Her manner was really most disconcerting. "You—you make it somewhat difficult, ma'am," he blustered.
Nothing could stir her calmness. "Then why give yourself the trouble?" she said; and again moved as if to go.
"Pray wait!" cried he, hastily. All the fine outworks of sarcasm and irony which he had elaborately prepared against this meeting had vanished before the icy blast of her imperturbable coolness. He was hot; he was uncomfortable. He could only stammer, "The fact is—my foolish son—"
Madame held up a delicate hand and stopped him. "Ah!" she said, with a well-bred rebuke of his excitement, "I can spare you any further discomfort. Your son forced his acquaintance on my daughter in my absence a week ago. Be assured we are willing to overlook his lack of manners. The circumstance need not be further alluded to."
Here was a nice thing! In those few words she had turned the tables on him. Instead of metaphorically grovelling in the dust at his feet and entreating his pardon, she had become the accuser, and he now found himself forced to speak on the defensive.
"It must be alluded to! I must explain!" he cried.
"No explanation or apology is required," she went on implacably, "since under no circumstances shall we allow the acquaintance to continue."
Was he on his head or his heels? These were practically the very words he had meant to use. This was the shell he had meant to hurl into the enemy's camp, and here it was, exploding under his own feet!
"But my son has pledged his word to come again, and—"
Again she interrupted him. "Make yourself easy on that score," she said; and now there was even a note of contempt in her voice. "He has broken his word."
"That was my doing!" cried Lord Otford, almost apologetically. "I persuaded him to wait a week. I regret to say he means to come to-day."
"Well," answered Madame, with the utmost indifference, "Pomander Walk is public, and we cannot prevent him."
"But he 'll see your daughter!"
"I think not. Unless he breaks into the house."
"Upon my soul, I believe he 'll go that length!" What Lord Otford had intended should be a menace, turned to an appeal. "That is where I ask for your co-operation."
Madame looked him up and down with indignant protest. Really, he might have been poor Snooks. "Pardon me," she said, "not co-operation." She drew herself up and her eyes flashed. "But I shall defend my own."
She laid a peculiar stress on the word "defend," which arrested his attention.
"'Defend'?" said he, with amazement. "What do you mean?"
She looked him straight in the face, and spoke with intense feeling. "I mean, that no member of your family is likely to cross my threshold."
There was something so threatening, so avenging in her voice, that he fell back a pace and said, hushed, "You speak as though you nursed a grudge against my family!"
Madame smiled scornfully. "Oh! no grudge whatever." Then she added slowly and very quietly, "But I remember!"
"Remember what?" cried he, more and more bewildered.
For a moment she did not answer. Then she turned to him and spoke. "Am I so changed—Jack Sayle?"
He stared. "Indeed, ma'am—" then suddenly he saw and remembered. He could only exclaim, "Good God!"
"Are you still puzzled?" she asked, with that mysterious smile of hers.
"Lucy!"
"Lucy Pryor," she assented. She bowed and turned away.
Lord Otford was stunned. "No—no," he stammered. "Stop!—this alters the case entirely!"
She turned on him with raised eyebrows. "How?"
He was entirely at a loss. He had spoken on the spur of the moment. All the past had suddenly risen up before him, all his youth had come flooding back. The birds sang in the old vicarage garden; his experiences, his worldly honours, sank from him, and he was a lad again, deeply in love; and here stood his first sweetheart—his only sweetheart—the woman who meant youth and spring-time and all the ideals of boyhood. He bowed his head. "I—I don't know. I am stunned!—After all these years!"
She was merciless. Also she was on her guard. She must not let herself be defeated by sentimentality. As she looked at him and saw him standing humbled before her, a still small voice in her heart cried out in pity. That would never do. He had blighted her youth; his son had hurt Marjolaine. She must remember. She must be firm. So she silenced the appealing voice and spoke with an admirable assumption of lightness.
"Why, what does it all amount to? After all these years Lord Otford meets Madame Lachesnais. These are not the Jack Sayle and the Lucy Pryor who loved, years ago. He does not meet a broken-hearted woman pining for her lost girlhood, but," she drew herself up and her voice grew firmer, "but one who has been a happy wife, and a happy mother—and a mother who will defend her daughter's happiness." Then the mockery returned, intensified. "So there is no cause for such a tragic countenance, my lord!"
Otford winced. He was humbled; he was angry with himself, and angry with her. "Madam," said he, "I am well rebuked. I wish you a very good day!" He made her a very low bow, and turned on his heel. Inwardly he was raging, and when, at the corner of the Walk, he ran right into the Eyesore who was innocently returning to his fishing, that unfortunate creature received the full force of his anger in a muttered but none the less hearty curse.
Madame stood where he had left her. Now that he was gone, she realised how the meeting had shaken her. Twenty years, and more, and he was scarcely changed! The same lithe figure; the same handsome face, with the bold eyes; the same appeal which had drawn her heart to him in the old days. The long interval which had elapsed, with all its varied adventures; her marriage, the Revolution, her husband's death, seemed merely an episode. She and Jack had parted yesterday, so it seemed, and to-day they had met again. She was dismayed at realising the sway he still held. The same sway as ever. It took the strength out of her limbs. She leaned against the summer-house in distress. This was unbearable. She must fight. The old pain must not be allowed to seize her in its grip. Jack Sayle was dead, buried and forgotten, and she would not let him come to life again.
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had opened her upstairs window and was leaning out. The sky was very threatening; there was going to be a thunder-storm; and there crouched that foolish cat of hers, oblivious of the weather, watching the Eyesore. "Sempronius!" she called. "Puss! Puss! Puss!"
But Sempronius had more urgent business than attending to his mistress's voice. A miracle had happened: the Eyesore had caught a fish! Sempronius looked on with eager interest as the Eyesore disengaged his prey from the hook and laid it on the grass. Yes; he would go in, said Sempronius to himself, making sure that the downstairs window of his mistress's house was open; he would go in presently, when he had safely stalked that fish. Not before.
The Admiral also had seen the skies darken. It was time to take in the thrush. So he leant out of his upstairs window to unhook the osier cage. His window and Mrs. Poskett's were so close together that—well—the Admiral and the widow could, at a pinch, have kissed if they had been so minded. But nothing was further from, the Admiral's thoughts.
"Sempronius!" screamed Mrs. Poskett.
"Ah!" chuckled the Admiral, "it's no use calling him, ma'am. He 's got his eye on the fish!"
"You don't mean to say the Eyesore's caught one!" cried Mrs. Poskett.
The Admiral laughed as he looked at the Eyesore. Laughed more than the occasion seemed to justify. "Ay, ay! he's wonderfully patient and persistent!"
The widow's face, as he leant out to see the fish, was very near the Admiral's.
"Astonishing what patience and persistence 'll do, Admiral," said she, coquettishly. She withdrew quickly and closed her window.
The Admiral was puzzled. What did she mean? But he shook off his forebodings. He turned to where the Eyesore, buried more than usual in his horrible old hat, was putting on new bait, and gave a low whistle. The Eyesore signalled to him to be quiet and at that moment he became aware of Madame, who was moving away from the Gazebo. "Gobblessmysoul! Madame!" he muttered to himself with inexplicable confusion, and hastily withdrew out of sight with his thrush.
Miss Barbara Pennymint came hopping down her steps, followed by Marjolaine. Madame had recovered her self-possession. "Ah!" she cried, seeing Marjolaine, "I was a little alarmed about you. Did you not hear me call?"
"No, Maman chérie."
Madame turned to Barbara. "Don't let her stay out if it rains." And with a pleasant nod to the two girls she moved into her house. She had need to be alone.
Marjolaine and Barbara locked their arms round each others' waists and came across the lawn.
Barbara turned up her pretty nose. "The Eyesore looks more revolting than ever!"
"Dreadful," assented Marjolaine, with a shudder. At this instant the Eyesore caught another fish! and Marjolaine gave a cry of surprise. Sempronius sat and watched.
"What's he doing now?" asked Barbara, in a whisper.
Marjolaine looked. Then she covered Barbara's eyes with her hand. "Don't look!" and in a tragic whisper, "He's putting on a worm!"
"Oh!" cried Barbara, with a shiver of disgust. They came down to the elm.
"It was impossible," said Marjolaine, "to talk in Ruth's presence, with Doctor Johnson screaming in the next room."
"Dearest," answered Barbara confidentially, "shall I confess that sometimes that bird—" she broke off—"but no! it were disloyal. Only, if Charles had given me a lock of his hair, perhaps it would have made less noise. Yet, now I think of it, that is a selfish wish, for he had been scalped."
"How dreadful!" cried Marjolaine. But she was full of her great idea, and went on at once. "Barbara, were you very much in love?"
Barbara's face grew very serious. "Dearest," she said reproachfully, "is that quite a delicate question?"
"Well," said Marjolaine, "I mean, are you still as much in love as ever?"
Barbara avoided her eyes. But she spoke with almost exaggerated feeling. "Dearest! Do you think love can change?"
Marjolaine thought a moment. I suppose she was consulting her own heart. Then she spoke very firmly. "No! I don't think so!"
"And do I not hear the sound of my darling's voice every time Doctor Johnson yells? Is not that enough to keep the flame of love alive even in the ashes of a heart however dead? Oh! if only that innocent fowl had been present when Charles used different language!"
"But did he?" asked Marjolaine innocently.
"I sometimes wonder," answered Barbara, deep in thought.
Marjolaine felt she had said a tactless thing. She must try to soften it. "Perhaps the loss of his hair—" she began.
"Yes," assented Barbara. "But he concealed the honourable scar under a lovely wig." She turned her eyes fondly to Basil's window from which the familiar passage from the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata came throbbing. "And—oh, dearest!—can any physical infirmity affect true love?" she cried rapturously.
At last she was coming to the point Marjolaine had been insidiously leading up to. Marjolaine watched her closely. "I suppose not."
"I am quite sure it cannot!" cried Barbara with a burst of enthusiasm.
Marjolaine took both Barbara's hands in hers and forced her to face her. She spoke very earnestly. "Barbara, why are you quite sure?"
Barbara instantly fell into a pretty state of confusion. "Dearest!—how searching you are!"
"Tell me!" insisted Marjolaine, "why are you quite sure?"
Barbara looked this way and that; toyed with the lace on Marjolaine's sleeve; and said quite irrelevantly, "Dearest—did your mother match those lovely silks?"
Marjolaine was not to be put off. "Mr. Basil plays the violin beautifully," she said.
Barbara fluttered exactly like a sparrow taking a sand-bath. She hopped all round Marjolaine. "Oh, dearest!" she chirped. "Oh, you wicked dearest! You have guessed my secret!" Then, if I may put it that way, she perched on Marjolaine's finger and pecked her on each cheek.
"I was sure before I guessed!" laughed Marjolaine.
The Eyesore caught another fish; and, what was equally astonishing, for the first time in his life, he moved from his accustomed place and came nearer the girls.
Barbara put on as solemn a face as she could contrive. "Promise you will never tell a living soul?"
"Look!" cried Marjolaine, "the Eyesore's caught another fish!"
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Barbara.
Marjolaine gave her a horrified look. "You are not in love with the Eyesore, too!"
"I meant the fish!" explained Barbara, "to be drawn out of the watery element."
"Ah," said Marjolaine, wisely, "that comes of a fondness for worms."
"Worms!" repeated Barbara, lugubriously. "Ah, worms!—I shall let the worm i' the bud feed on my damaged cheek."
The two were now sitting on the bench under the elm, and twittering together like little love-birds. The Eyesore came nearer.
"Barbara," said Marjolaine, with meaning, "suppose Mr. Basil's cheek is being fed on, too?"
"Dearest, that is impossible," said Barbara.
Marjolaine sat nearer and spoke more confidentially. "Suppose I know it is?"
Barbara pushed her away and looked at her. "You wonderful child!" Then she added, shortly, "Then why does n't he speak?"
"Suppose he 's too shy?"
Barbara appealed to the universe. "Oh! are n't men silly?"—She luxuriated in her sense of tragedy. "Then we must look and long."
Marjolaine breathed into her ear, "But suppose a third person spoke!"
"You!" exclaimed Barbara, with delight.
"No!" said Marjolaine, rather shocked. "That would not do at all. I could n't." The Eyesore was very near them. Marjolaine saw him. "Hush!" she whispered, and drew Barbara away. "Hush! The Eyesore!"
Barbara looked from her to the Eyesore and back again with bewilderment. "You don't mean he 's to be Cupid's messenger!"
Marjolaine laughed. "No, no. Listen." She sank her voice to a mysterious whisper. In spite of her own sorrow she was enjoying herself immensely. "Listen, and try not to scream." Barbara quivered with excitement. Marjolaine went on, "Doctor Johnson talks, does n't he?"
Barbara looked at her in amazement. "Doctor John—?"
"And he learns easily?"
"But what—?"
"Let Basil hear it from him!" said Marjolaine, triumphantly.
"Hear what?" almost screamed Barbara.
Marjolaine laughingly took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Oh, you little goose!" she cried. Then she added, very deliberately and clearly, "Teach the parrot to say—'Barbara loves you!'"
Barbara did, I assure you, leap into the air, and Marjolaine had her hand over her mouth only just in time to stifle a scream which would have brought the entire Walk to its doors and windows.
But Barbara was seized with instant remorse.
She put Marjolaine away from her with a gesture which would have done credit to Mrs. Siddons. She spoke in a tone of mingled heroism and reproach: "Charles's only gift, turned to such uses! Oh, Marjory!"
Marjolaine was quite unabashed. "Would n't Charles be pleased to know his gift had been the means of making you happy?"
"From what I can remember of him, I should say decidedly not," said Barbara, rather snappishly.
The Eyesore was now close to the Gazebo.
"Look!" cried Marjolaine. "The Eyesore's invading the whole Walk!"
But little Barbara cared. Also her momentary remorse had entirely vanished. If she had been on a tree she would have hopped from branch to branch. As it was she hopped all across the lawn, clapping her hands and twittering. "Oh! I can't bother about him!" she said. "Let him invade! Oh! it's such a splendid idea! Oh! you 're such a clever girl! Oh! my goodness, what shall I do?"
Marjolaine was anxious on the Eyesore's account. Were the Admiral to see him, there would be a terrible outburst of anger. "I'll speak to him," she said, summoning all her courage, "I 'll save him from Sir Peter's wrath!"
"No! no!" cried Barbara; "stick to business! Tell me more about the bird!"
"Stand by me!" entreated Marjolaine. "Hold my hand!"
"I daren't! I'm frightened!" cried Barbara, "and—and—and I want to begin teaching the bird!"
"Treacherous Barbara!" cried Marjolaine. But before the words were out of her mouth Barbara had scuttled into the house and slammed the door.
And before Marjolaine had recovered from that shock the Eyesore had hurled his hat and smock into the Gazebo, and she was in Jack's arms.