MANŒUVRES.
So confident was Usk in his mother’s kindness of heart that when
Lord and Lady Caerleon arrived in London late that evening, he was
waiting for them at the terminus, eager to conduct them at once to the
Hotel Bloomsbury. Having seen the evening papers in the course of
their journey, they were acquainted with the details of the tragedy,
and did not need to be assured by him of the desolate state of the two
girls.
“I knew you would come,” he said.
“How could we do anything else?” asked his mother. “Poor Félicia!
one’s heart bleeds for her. Only just engaged, and her joy clouded in
this terrible way----!”
“Oh, but---- we aren’t exactly engaged yet,” said Usk uncomfortably.
“You see, Mr Steinherz had given his consent all right, but I hadn’t
spoken to Félicia, and there has been no opportunity since.”
“No, of course not. But this makes it rather awkward, Usk. It seemed
only natural to come and look after the poor girl when I thought she
was engaged to you, but now she may consider it a liberty.”
“Not she, mater! She’ll think it just too sweet for words, as she and
Miss Logan are always saying. They stand in tremendous awe of you.”
“There, Nadia!” said Lord Caerleon, “that settles it. You have somehow
managed to inspire these unknown Americans with awe, and it’s your
bounden duty to go and put things right--your duty, mind.”
“I will go and ask if I can do anything for them, certainly, as soon
as we get there, but that’s different from having the right to go and
mother them, as it were.”
“No; that’s just what they want,” said Usk. “Think of it, mater--two
girls alone in a strange country in such terrible circumstances! Of
course they want mothering.”
Lady Caerleon never allowed herself to shrink from a duty when it was
once set plainly before her, and half an hour later she knocked at the
door of the Steinherzes’ sitting-room. Maimie, who was sitting alone,
worn out by innumerable harassing interviews with reporters, police
inspectors, officials from the Pannonian and United States Embassies,
and various tradesmen, thought wearily that here was another caller.
“Come right in,” she answered with resignation, but stood up
astonished when she saw that the visitor was a stately and very
handsome middle-aged lady. The surprise did not last more than a
moment.
“You are the Marchioness of Caerleon,” she said, and again her tone
spoke of hopeless resignation. “I sort of felt you would come.”
“My son told me of your sad trouble, and Lord Caerleon and I thought
we might perhaps be some help to you,” said Lady Caerleon, almost
timidly. She was trying to assure herself that Maimie’s words bespoke
nothing but confidence, but she had an uncomfortable suspicion that
they covered dislike, even defiance.
“Lord Usk is real considerate, but Miss Steinherz and I have no claim
on the kindness of his relations,” said Maimie icily. Lady Caerleon
mistook her meaning, and thought she had penetrated the secret of this
cool reception.
“I assure you,” she said with a touch of _hauteur_, “I know perfectly
well how things stand between Miss Steinherz and my son. She need have
no fear that Usk will intrude himself and his wishes upon her at such
a time. Pray believe that I have merely come to offer you such help as
I can.”
“You are real good,” said Maimie, blushing as she realised what her
words had implied to Usk’s mother; “but I’m so awfully tired to-night,
I just can’t seem to say things right. I don’t know what way they fix
anything over here, or what to say to the people that have been coming
around all day.”
“My husband will undertake to see any one who comes on business, and
he will advise you in any way he can,” said Lady Caerleon, touched by
the confession. “I really think you will find it an advantage to have
a man to represent you,” she added gently. “People here like it
better.”
“And in England it’s just as well to have a lord back of one all the
time?” Maimie spoke quite seriously, but it struck her at once that
the words sounded like an ill-timed joke.
“I won’t ask to see Miss Steinherz to-night,” said Lady Caerleon, with
some coldness; “but if she feels well enough in the morning----”
“If you please, miss,” said Félicia’s maid, entering the room, “Miss
Steinherz have woke up all of a tremble, and she says will her
ladyship go and see her for a moment, if she would be so kind?”
“I’ll just speak to her,” said Maimie quickly, and she hastened to
Félicia’s room. “Fay,” she whispered hurriedly, “you won’t have Lady
Caerleon see you to-night, will you? I didn’t want to bring her along
till to-morrow, when I’ve got things fixed. I’ve planned it all out
for us to go right back home at once, so’s you won’t have to come to
any conclusion yet, and then in the spring we’ll cross to Europe just
by ourselves and have an elegant time.”
“You make me tired--you and your plans and plots!” cried Félicia
vehemently. “I’m so nervous I could fly, and I want to see somebody
quiet and restful. That’s what I feel all the time with Usk. He’s not
smart, but he’s real good. Just bring his mother right along in.”
Warned by the shrill voice and gleaming eyes, Maimie obeyed without a
word, wondering maliciously what Lady Caerleon would think of the
unconventional greeting she would probably receive. But Félicia made
her way to her visitor’s heart at once. After one look at the calm
beautiful face bent over her, she rose impulsively and threw herself
into Lady Caerleon’s arms.
“Oh, love me!” she cried. “Pet me, just as if I was a baby again!”
“Oh, my darling!” cried Lady Caerleon, taken by storm. “Are you come
to me instead of my Phil? I have lost her, you know; she was married
last year, and I have wanted a daughter so much.”
She held the quivering form in her arms, stilled the sobs which broke
forth, murmured tender names, until Félicia consented to lie down
again, and then sat by her until she fell asleep, Maimie watching in
the background, with bitter jealousy gnawing at her heart. She, who
had mothered Félicia since she was nine and Félicia six, was nothing
to her now that this Englishwoman had come on the scene. Then she
remembered certain previous experiences of the kind, and was
comforted. Félicia had turned from her before, in transient fits of
virtue or of friendship, but she had always come back.
“She is the dearest girl!” Lady Caerleon said to her husband, with
tears in her eyes, when she was at length free to seek her own room;
“very unconventional--quite a child of nature, but my heart went out
to her. It seemed as if she had always felt the want of a mother so
terribly, and to-night, of course, worse than ever.”
During the days that followed, not only Félicia, but Maimie, learned
to be thankful for the presence and countenance of Usk’s parents. The
reporters had been inclined to invent scandalous stories on the
strength of the supposed likeness between the murdered American
millionaire and the Pannonian Archduke, but when Lord Caerleon, backed
by the police and the hospital officials, assured them that the
likeness was purely a delusion of the murderer’s, they were forced to
restrain their exuberant fancy. As for Usk, he stood uneasily aloof
when discussions of this kind were taking place, wondering at the
blindness of the experts. With his mind’s eye he saw continually one
of the chief treasures of Llandiarmid, a snuff-box presented to his
great-grandfather when a young soldier by the aged Emperor Matthias of
Pannonia, the great-grandfather alike of the present Emperor and of Mr
Steinherz, in recognition of a gallant deed of arms done under his own
eye. The monarch’s portrait, set in diamonds, ornamented the lid of
the box, and it seemed almost incredible to Usk that his father could
look at the face of the murdered man and not recall at once the
miniature which was so familiar to him.
In the absence of the clue which Usk possessed, public interest,
though keenly excited by the tragedy, failed to seize upon its details
with the wolfish eagerness which would have been aroused by any hint
of the truth. It was made clear at the inquest that the murderer, who
was identified as an Italian violinist named Marco Farinelli, had been
known to the police for some time as an associate of foreign
Republicans in London. He had lived many years in England, having just
escaped the consequences of complicity in a plot against the Pannonian
occupation of Venetia. His father, who had helped him to leave the
country, and forcibly resisted the Pannonian soldiers sent to arrest
him, had been summarily shot, and his mother, who was ill in bed,
turned out in a winter night on the roadside, where she died. For
nearly forty years Farinelli had cherished the memory of his wrongs,
and it was shown that he was greatly excited by the news of the
approaching visit to England of the Archduke Ferdinand Joachim, who
had been in military command of the district in which his parents
lived. It was proved that he had tried to form a band of assassins,
who were to see that the Archduke did not leave London alive; but his
friends had other work on hand, or preferred not to bring themselves
into public notice, and he had evidently determined to accomplish his
vengeance alone. In the breast-pocket of his coat was found a paper
which aroused much curiosity--a kind of itinerary of London, duly
mapped out into days. “Wednesday, Trafalgar Square and British Museum;
Thursday, Houses of Parliament and Government Offices ...” it ran, but
the Scotland Yard officials charged with the protection of the
Archduke during his visit were able to explain it. Having learnt, with
considerable dismay, that the distinguished visitor proposed to devote
his mornings while in London to wandering about _incognito_, they
arranged with much care a false time-table, which was allowed to
circulate freely in his household. The expected leakage occurred, and
the whole arrangement became known in some mysterious way to
Farinelli, but while he was keeping his eager watch in the
neighbourhood of the Museum, the Archduke was being conducted over the
Horse-Guards. The mistake which had occurred was now perfectly clear
to the jury, who had heard Usk acknowledge that there was from one
point of view a certain likeness between the Archduke and Mr
Steinherz, and they returned a verdict of wilful murder against the
Italian, adding an expression of their sympathy with the family of the
victim. In Farinelli’s case the verdict was one of accidental death,
although there was some attempt to bring it in as suicide, and the
jury were discharged, and the nine days’ wonder was at an end.
Maimie had found Lord Caerleon a tower of strength while the inquest
was going on. He made a point of accompanying her backwards and
forwards each day, and sitting beside her in court, and he was so
quiet and so impassive that her restless impatience seemed to be
calmed perforce. She did not fret over the fact that Lady Caerleon and
Félicia were continually together; and she received with outward
resignation the news which was awaiting her when the inquest ended,
and which she had, indeed, foreseen. It fell to Lady Caerleon to
communicate it, which she prepared to do with some anxiety, and
Maimie’s lip curled when she realised what was coming. It was quite
like Félicia to depute another person to make an announcement that
might prove disagreeable.
“Félicia and I have been talking things over,” said Lady Caerleon,
“and we think we have arranged a very pleasant plan. But of course we
could not decide upon it without you.”
“I guess not, indeed. Félicia and I don’t _ever_ act independently of
one another,” returned Maimie, with sarcastic emphasis.
Lady Caerleon went on hastily. She thought she understood perfectly
well the soreness which filled the heart of the girl who found herself
set aside for the lover and his relations, and she was very sorry for
Maimie. “It is very touching,” she said, “how stringently Mr Steinherz
in his will expressed his desire to be buried in America by the side
of his wife. I can quite sympathise with Félicia’s natural desire to
take his body home herself, which she tells me you suggested she
should do. But she is really not fit for it. I never saw any one so
completely a creature of nerves. The least excitement seems to throw
her into a fever, and the strain of such a journey at this time of
year would be enough to kill her.”
“In other words, Fay don’t choose to risk a voyage in the fall,” said
Maimie to herself, even while she was listening with polite interest
to Lady Caerleon.
“And so our idea--of course I suggested it--was that Usk should cross
to America with--the body, and superintend the funeral, and see that
everything was done as you and Félicia would wish, and that you
should both come home with us to Llandiarmid for the winter. The quiet
country life would be sure to do Félicia good, and it would be the
greatest pleasure to my husband and me to have young people about us
again. I can’t tell you how I was dreading another winter without my
daughter.”
“Lady Caerleon--” Maimie was looking at her with searching eyes--“I’d
like to ask you just one question--does this bind Félicia to anything
when Lord Usk comes home?”
Lady Caerleon looked surprised and somewhat annoyed. “I see nothing
binding in what I have said,” she answered.
“There won’t be any doubt that Lord Usk goes as Mr Steinherz’s friend,
not as Félicia’s lover--that his kindness gives him no claim on her?
People look at things so differently over here.”
“I should have thought gentlemanly conduct was the same on both sides
of the Atlantic. A gentleman does not consider that he has established
a claim upon a woman when he does her a service.”
“Now I have made you mad,” said Maimie sorrowfully, “and I’m real
grieved. It’s just for Félicia’s sake I’m speaking. I don’t want to
see her engage herself right now, when she’s naturally thinking more
of her father’s wish, and of all your sweet love and kindness to her,
than of her own feelings.”
Lady Caerleon wished in vain that there was some means of knowing
whether this girl was laughing at her or not. “You seem to suggest
that nothing but pressure from her father would have induced Félicia
to accept Usk,” she said. “If you have any reason to believe this, I
think it is your duty to tell me.”
“Why, that’s just what I can’t tell you,” said Maimie, with the most
engaging frankness. “I don’t see anything of Félicia these days, and
I can’t seem to find out what she feels like. Only I had my misgivings
before all of this happened, and I don’t want to see her rushed into
anything.”
“You may feel quite happy. No one will put the slightest pressure upon
Félicia to do anything but please herself,” said Lady Caerleon
stiffly. “Usk won’t even try to come to an understanding with her
before he sails.”
“And when he comes back, he’ll just begin over again from the
beginning?” cried Maimie ecstatically. “Dear Lady Caerleon, you have
taken a weight off my mind!”
“What a curious person Miss Logan is!” said Lady Caerleon afterwards
to her son. “I can never make her out. She always seems to suspect us
in some way.”
Usk’s private opinion was that Maimie suspected the Caerleon family,
generally and individually, of anxiety to lay hold upon Félicia’s
fortune, but he would not suggest this to his mother, lest in the
shock of such an accusation she should insist upon washing her hands
of both girls forthwith.
“Oh, I don’t think she likes me much,” he said lightly; “but one can’t
wonder at it, when she’s so devoted to Félicia. You won’t let her
turn Félicia against me while I am away, will you?”
But Maimie had no thought of doing anything so crude. One of her
reasons for wishing to return to America had been the hope of
obtaining from Mr Hicks some clue to the nature of the proofs Mr
Steinherz had left in his charge; but since she was foiled in this,
she had decided to keep her secret to herself for the present. As
things were, Félicia’s claim upon her father’s relations would meet
only with ridicule if it was brought to their notice. The house of
Albret-Arragon would be likely to entertain it only if it offered some
advantage, Mr Steinherz had said, and so far there was nothing but
money to offer. But time might bring other opportunities, and it was
time that Maimie had gained. Still, she did not think it well to let
Félicia see that she was tolerably satisfied.
“I wonder just how long you’ll find Llandiarmid endurable!” she said
to her. “You’re to have Phil’s room, you know, and sort of take her
place.”
“I don’t care,” was the irritating reply. “Lady Caerleon is just
sweet. I do love to have her sit by me and talk nicely about poor
Pappa. It don’t remind me the least of what he was, but it’s real
soothing to hear.”
There was a touch of the old Félicia in this speech, and Maimie saw
in a flash why Lady Caerleon’s society had been preferred to her own
of late. Félicia felt more at her ease with a stranger, who would
naturally credit her with possessing all the feelings suitable to the
occasion, than with one who knew as well as Maimie had done the lack
of sympathy between her father and herself.
There was now no need to remain longer in London, and after a funeral
service at a neighbouring church, which was attended by the American
Ambassador, and to which the Archduke Ferdinand Joachim sent a
representative, Usk started on his mournful journey. His farewell was
clouded by the dismay which seized upon Félicia at the sight of the
funeral arrangements. They were so poor, so shabby, she lamented; it
would be said all over America that she had economised on her father’s
funeral. It was in vain that Lord Caerleon assured her everything had
been done without regard to expense; she was plunged in woe for a
whole day, recounting to Lady Caerleon at intervals the extraordinary
sums which had been spent on costly “caskets” and other accessories at
the funerals of different acquaintances, not heeding that her auditor
thought the expenditure a wicked waste, and the publication of the
cost ostentation of the worst kind.
The next day the two girls travelled to Llandiarmid with Lord and Lady
Caerleon. It was a long journey, and the autumn dusk was already
gathering when they arrived, but just before the lamps were lighted,
Maimie, who was helping the maid to unpack for Félicia, happened to
glance out of the window, and laughed gently. Félicia, who was lying
exhausted on the couch, recovered sufficiently to come and look out as
well, and saw Lord and Lady Caerleon setting out together for a ramble
in the twilight. He had already routed out and put on an old Norfolk
jacket and tweed cap, and Lady Caerleon’s long skirt was gathered up
to a serviceable length. Her hand was tucked into her husband’s arm,
and they were stealing out like two children bent on a frolic, talking
happily.
“Can you see yourself and Usk going out together that way?” asked
Maimie, in a low voice.
“I guess not,” was Félicia’s emphatic answer.
“But why not? It’s just awfully charming. Why, they’re not even
stout--Lord Caerleon is too active, and she worries too much over
other folks--they’re just nice, solid, comfortable, middle-aged
people. Oh, you’ll get like them, Fay. You’re going to be put in
training for that now, and don’t you forget it.”
Félicia answered by an apprehensive glance round the room. Lady
Philippa Mortimer had not been by any means a luxurious young person,
and her favourite decorations appeared to have been hunting trophies.
Her room had seemed to her the very acme of comfort, but she had never
cared to stay indoors when she could possibly be out, and to the two
American girls the place looked woefully bare. But there was a gleam
of triumph in Maimie’s eye, and Félicia hid her dismay manfully.
Maimie scolded herself for that involuntary glance, and waited.
For the first two or three days all went well. It was natural that
Félicia should be considered an invalid after the journey, and she
was pursued everywhere by Lady Caerleon or her maid, anxious to
establish her on the most comfortable sofa that could be found. There
was the Castle to explore, too--a small portion at a time, that she
might not be fatigued; and if Lord Caerleon was wounded by her
audacious and irreverent comments on the family portraits and other
valued treasures, he was too hospitable to betray the fact, realising
that she fully believed she was entertaining him. But the fatigue even
of a six hours’ railway journey is not expected to last for ever, and
presently Lady Caerleon hinted to Maimie that she thought it would be
far better for Félicia’s health if she would exert herself a little.
What was there she would like to do?
It was a shock to the busy mistress of Llandiarmid to learn that
Félicia could not walk, could not sew or embroider, did not care to
sing, play, or draw, and when she read, read nothing but new novels,
of which the Castle was conspicuously destitute. Moreover, anything
that she was invited to do happened to be one of the very things that
hurt her eyes, or made her head ache, or her face flush. In her
distress Lady Caerleon took counsel with Maimie, who, though well
aware that Félicia would not walk lest it should make her feet large,
or work lest it should spoil her hands, did not feel called upon to
reveal these reasons.
“What do you do in America, if you never go for walks?” asked the
perplexed hostess.
“Why, we go out riding,” answered Maimie carelessly.
“Riding? Why didn’t you tell me before? I never thought Félicia would
ride, and it will be an excellent thing for her. There’s Phil’s
horse----”
“Oh, I don’t mean that. I meant carriage-rides and sleigh-rides.”
“Oh, _driving_?” said Lady Caerleon involuntarily. “But she won’t come
out with me.”
“I guess it’s just because she’s afraid you’ll have her go and see
poor folks. We don’t do that sort of thing in America.”
“If Félicia is to live here after me, I hope she will be known as a
friend in every house on the estate,” said Lady Caerleon seriously.
Maimie was silent. The suggestion was too absurd to need argument.
Then a happy idea occurred to her. “But Félicia has learnt riding,
Lady Caerleon, and if you have a well-mannered horse----”
“My husband trained Philippa’s horse himself,” said Lady Caerleon, and
Maimie undertook to suggest the idea to Félicia. Félicia thought it
sounded promising, especially since it involved Lord Caerleon’s
escort, and she appeared in an exquisitely cut habit, perfect down to
the minutest detail.
“She looks very well on horseback, but she sits a little stiffly,”
remarked Lady Caerleon to Maimie, as they watched the riders start.
“Has she ridden much across country?”
“Lady Caerleon!” shrieked Maimie in horror; “don’t tell me your
husband’s going to take her ’cross lots. We don’t ride that way in
America--not in the East, any way--only on the roads. She’ll be
killed.”
“You may be quite sure my husband won’t take her anywhere dangerous,”
said Lady Caerleon; but Maimie waited in agony until Félicia
returned, more dishevelled-looking than she had ever seen her. Lord
Caerleon’s good-humoured face was somewhat clouded as he helped her to
dismount.
“You have a very good seat--for the Park,” was the only comment he
allowed himself to make upon the ride, but Félicia was less reticent
when she had reached her room.
“Maimie Logan,” she said emphatically, “I call you to witness that I
won’t ever again go riding with an Englishman anywhere outside of
London. When I had declined all the tempting fences and ditches Lord
Caerleon showed me, I thought I was through; but suddenly we came out
upon a piece of waste land, and he said, ‘This is Phil’s favourite bit
of common. Shall we canter?’ and the horse flew off before I could
refuse. I was shaken to death, and the wind was ahead of us, so I
haven’t a scrap of skin left on my face, and I guess my bang won’t
ever curl again.”
Maimie received this information with a shriek of unfeigned dismay,
and for the next two days Félicia remained invisible to the rest of
the household, submitting to many unpleasant and infallible remedies
warranted to restore a damaged complexion. Lord and Lady Caerleon were
overwhelmed with self-reproach, and Maimie assured Félicia that she
would never be asked to ride again. This seemed to her quite
satisfactory; but on the evening of the second day, when she rushed
upstairs after dinner, she found her friend dissolved in tears.
“Why, Fay, your eyes!” she cried, and Félicia applied a handkerchief
delicately, then wept again.
“Oh, it’s killing me!” was her moan. “Everything here’s just horrid.
There isn’t any place to lounge--not even a rocker!”
It was quite true. There was an old-fashioned sofa, on which it was
possible to lie at full length, but certainly not to lounge, and a low
basket-chair, which Philippa, who had upholstered it herself, had
thought the most restful thing in the world. The photograph of herself
and her husband, which hung over the mantelpiece, in the place where
she had always kept her family photographs, seemed to smile
maliciously upon the present occupier of the room, as she sat
curled-up in a nest of cushions. Maimie came gallantly to the rescue.
“Say, Fay, we’re fixed here for the winter, and I guess we must stick
the time out. But I’ll have them give you a different room if you
won’t spoil your eyes crying.”
“How?” asked Félicia, with some interest.
“Oh, I’ll fix things,” said Maimie, mysteriously but with secret
satisfaction. Félicia was returning to her allegiance very fast. It
was another reason for contentment that Félicia asked no questions as
to the way in which she secured success. This was very simple. Maimie
told Lady Caerleon that Félicia slept badly, which was true, and
suggested that she ought not to sleep alone. Before Lady Caerleon,
somewhat puzzled, had time to propose that Maimie should move into the
same room, Maimie added that she felt sure the easterly aspect of Lady
Philippa’s room was not good for Félicia. Informed that it was the
outlook which Philippa had specially loved, Maimie retorted that that
might be so, but Félicia was just perished with cold. Lady Caerleon
remarked that she was sure to be cold in the winter if she would not
go out; to which Maimie replied that in America the houses were
heated, and people had not to go outdoors to get warm. Lady Caerleon
was horrified by the implied reproach. She had meant the girl Usk
loved to be so much to her, but in some mysterious way they seemed to
be fast drifting apart. And now it was suggested that Félicia was
suffering heroically in silence, fearing to wound her hostess by the
suggestion that Philippa’s room was too cold for her! Always ready to
accuse herself, Lady Caerleon blamed her own lack of sympathy and
insight, and entreated Maimie to say what she thought it would be best
to do. Maimie was quite prepared for this. There were two rooms
opening into one another, and facing south-west, which she thought
would be just right. And might she look about in the unoccupied rooms
of the Castle, and choose the furniture that Félicia would probably
like? In her compunction, Lady Caerleon would have given leave for
anything, and in due time Maimie introduced Félicia to a kind of
fairy bower. There were quaint tables and cabinets belonging to the
Castle, but the draperies and ornaments came from Maimie’s own stores.
She had foreseen this crisis, and provided against it.
Lady Caerleon found that her dream of having two young companions and
helpers always with her this winter instead of one was doomed to
disappointment. The two girls spent their time almost exclusively in
their own rooms, and what they did there was a mystery. Maimie had
American books and papers sent her by post, and sometimes her voice
could be heard as she read aloud to Félicia; but Félicia’s
activities seemed to be confined to the eating of bonbons. When there
were visitors, however, both the girls made their appearance as soon
as they were sent for, and took all the burden of entertaining off
Lady Caerleon’s shoulders. About each of them would gather a circle of
worthy squires and parsons, whose honest laughter over Transatlantic
audacities of speech made the great hall ring. The country ladies,
sitting silent and astonished and a little shocked, had yet eyes to
note the Parisian elegance of the deep mourning gowns, even if they
remarked afterwards that it was just like Americans to dress with such
uncalled for smartness every day. In any case, an impression was made.