ORMOND PLACE.
A still, cold, beautiful morning in March,--the dark crimson sun slowly
creeping up behind the tall and leafless trees of the wood on this
Berkshire hill. There is snow everywhere,--snow on the far uplands, snow
on this sloping forest, snow on the shelving ground that glides down to
the banks of the smooth blue waters of the Thames. There is a ruddy
glow over that wintry waste of white; for the eastern vapours deaden the
light of the sun, and redden it, and steep the far horizon in a soft
purple haze. There is not a breath of wind. The sere and withered
stems of the tall grey rushes by the riverside are motionless, except
when the wild ducks stir in their marshy secrecy, or the water-hens swim
out to take a cautious look up and down the stream. Here and there, too,
the river catches a streak of crimson and purple, as it lies hushed and
still in the hushed, still white meadows.
Back from these meadows lies the long low hill which slopes downward to
the east, and loses itself in illimitable woods. Up here on its summit
is the little village of Steyne--only a church, with a square grey
tower, a vicarage smothered in dark ivy, and two or three cottages.
Farther along the great bank you come to the woods of Ormond Place; and
right in the centre of them, in a great clearance visible for miles
round, stands, fronting the river and the broad valley and the far
landscape, the house in which Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knottingley,
died.
It is a modern house, large, roomy, and stately, with oval-roofed
greenhouses breaking the sharp descent of the walls to the ground; a
house so tall and well-placed as to overlook the great elms in the park,
which, on the other side of the broad and banked-up lawn, slopes down
into the valley. As the red sun rises over the purple fog, it catches
the pale front of the house, and sheds over it a glimmer of gold. The
snow gleams cold and yellow on the evergreens, on the iron railings of
the park, on the lawn where it is crossed and recrossed with a network
of rabbits' footprints. Finally, as the sun masters the eastern
vapours, and strikes with a wintry radiance on the crimson curtains
inside the large windows (and they have on this morning a wanner light
flickering upon them from within), Ormond Place, all white and gold,
shines like a palace of dreams, raised high and clear over that spacious
English landscape that lies cold and beautiful along the noblest of
English rivers.
There was life and stir in Ormond Place this morning. The
carriage-drive had been swept; the principal rooms in the house stripped
of their chintz coverings; great fires lit; the children of the lodge
dressed in their smartest pinafores; the servants in new liveries;
harness, horses, carriages, and stables alike polished to the last
degree. The big fires shone in the grates, and threw lengthening
splashes of soft crimson on the thick carpets and up the
palely-decorated walls. The sleeping palace had awoke, and the new rush
of life tingled in its veins.
About twelve o'clock in the forenoon the carriage that had been sent to
Corchester Station returned with two occupants inside. The children at
the lodge, drawn up in line, bobbed a curtsey as they stared wonderingly
at the carriage-window, where they saw nothing. A few minutes
afterwards Annie Brunel, pale a little, and dressed entirely and simply
in black, walked into her father's house between the servants, who were
unconsciously trying to learn their future fate in the expression of her
face. And if they did not read in that face a calm forbearance, a
certain sad sympathy and patience, they had less penetration than
servants generally have.
She entered one of the rooms--a great place with panelled pillars in the
centre, and a vague vision of crystal and green leaves at the farther
end--and sate down in one of the chairs near the blazing fire. It was
not a moment of triumph--it was a moment of profound, unutterable
sadness. The greatness of the place, the strange faces around her,
increased the weight of loneliness she felt. And then all the
reminiscences of her mother's life were present to her, and she seemed
to have established a new and strange link between herself and her. It
seemed as if the great chasm of time and circumstance had been bridged
over, and that in discovering her mother's house, and the old
associations of these bygone years, she should have discovered her also,
and met the kindly face she once knew. If Annie Napier had walked into
the room just then, and laid her hand on her daughter's shoulder, I do
not think the girl would have been surprised.
"Was my mother ever in this house?" she asked of Mr. Cayley, not
noticing that he was still standing with his hat in his hand.
"Doubtless. She was married in that little church we passed."
"And instead of spending her life here in comfort and quiet, he let her
go away to America, and work hard and bitterly for herself and me."
Mr. Cayley said nothing.
"Do you know anything of her life here? How long she stayed? What were
her favourite rooms? Where she used to sit?"
"No, your ladyship; I only presume Lady Knottingley must have lived here
for a little while before going to Switzerland. My father might be able
to tell me."
"I am very anxious to see him,--he is the only person I am anxious to
see. He knew my mother; perhaps he can tell me something about her life
here and in Switzerland. She _may_ have left some things in the
house--a book or a picture--that he might tell me was hers; don't you
think so?"
Mr. Cayley, against his knowledge, was forced to admit that it _was_
possible, for he saw there were tears in the girl's eyes.
"Would you care to go through the house now?" he suggested. "Mrs.
Tillotson will go with you, and see what arrangements or alterations you
want made. And about your future residence here----"
"I cannot stay here," she said; "the place is too big and too lonely. I
could not bear to live alone in this great place."
"Your ladyship need not want for society. Both of the trustees, Lord
Sefton and----"
"I will not see one of them!" she said, with flashing eyes. "I
consented to see them, when you said it was necessary--but to meet them
as friends! They knew my mother; they must have seen her and known her;
and they never tried to help her. They were men; and they let a woman be
treated like that!"
The bitter scorn of the words sounded so strangely as it came from the
gentle face; but there was an indignant flush in her cheeks, and
indignation in her eyes.
"My mother spent years of weary labour that she might never go amongst
these people. With all her love for me, she thought it better that I,
too, should work for my living, and run the chances of illness, rather
than go amongst them; and am I to make friends with them now? Their
condescension is great; but when a woman has lived the life that I have;
she begins to mistrust people who want to be friends with you only when
you become fortunate. And why do they want to be friends with me? They
will take me into society?--I don't wish to go. They will offer me
their wives and sisters as companions?--I prefer other companions. I
would rather walk out of this house a beggar to-morrow morning, than
pretend to be friends with people _whom I hate_!"
"Your ladyship is unjust," said Mr. Cayley. "These gentlemen tried to
induce your mother to return to England, and accept that effort at
compensation which Lord Knottingley made when it was too late. Nor
could they show any interest in your welfare before now without
revealing that secret which your mother had imposed on us all. As well
blame me for not seeking you out before you came to our office. We all
of us knew who you were; we were bound to let you make the first
overtures yourself."
"Compensation? You imagine that a woman who had her heart broken should
have accepted that tardy acknowledgment of her rights as a sufficient
compensation?"
"It was all Lord Knottingley could then offer," said the lawyer, who
stuck manfully to the clear outlines of the case as they lay mapped out
in his brain, without regard to the distortion produced by the generous
impulses of love, and pity, and indignation. These disturbant
influences, in the present case, he could not well understand; for he
failed to comprehend the powerful caste-hatred which the girl had sucked
in with her mother's milk--a bitter and illogical prejudice, which
neither the tenderness of her own nature, nor the provoked arguments of
Will, nor the wise counsel and example of Mr. Anerley, had in any way
tempered.
Shortly afterwards, they went on a tour of inspection through the house,
accompanied by Mrs. Tillotson, a tall, thin-faced, dark woman, with
placid melancholy eyes and a soft voice. The first question asked of
the housekeeper by her new mistress was whether she remembered Lord
Knottingley's wife. But neither Mrs. Tillotson, nor any one of the
servants, had been with Lord Knottingley at that time.
"Except Brooks, my lady, perhaps; he has been with the family since he
was a boy.
"Who is Brooks?"
"The lodge-keeper. Perhaps your ladyship didn't see him at the gate,
for he is old, and seldom moves out-of-doors. But surely on such a day
as this----"
"I saw some children----"
"They are his grandchildren--John Brooks's children. They all live in
the lodge. But he is sure to present himself during the day; and I hope
your ladyship won't be offended by his--his manner--his bluntness of
speaking----"
When they had gone through the house, and the young girl had indicated
what rooms she should occupy, they returned downstairs. There was an
old man in the hall, his cap in his hand, his long white hair falling on
the neck of his fine Sunday coat, which was considerably too small for
him. He regarded Annie Brunel with a curious look, and said to her, as
she approached--
"Pardon, my lady; I thought I'd come up and see as it were all true.
And true it is--true it is."
"That is Brooks," said Mrs. Tillotson.
The girl bade the old man go into the great drawing-room.
"You don't remember me," he said. "I remember you; but as you came down
them stairs, I'd 'a sworn it wasn't you. If they hadn't told me you
were coming, I should ha' said it was a ghost--the ghost o' your mother
as come down them stairs."
"You remember her?" she said, with an eager bright look.
"Ay, and you too. You don't remember me; but I nearly killed you
once--when your pony tried to take the upper 'and on ye, and I 'it 'im,
and afoor I knew where I was----"
"But where did all this happen?"
"Why, in Switzerland, where you and your mother was. I've good eyes; I
can remember. And there's lots more o' the old folk as might, only
they've turned 'em all off, and brought in new uns, as doesn't know
nothin' o' the family, or the Place. It was your father as said I
should live here till I died, and then they can turn me out, if they
like; and I came up to see if it was true you had come home, and whether
you'd want me to go with the rest. If you mean it, say it, plump and
plain. I'm not afear'd to go; I can earn my living as well as younger
men I knows on about this 'ere very place----"
"My good man, don't disquiet yourself. You will never have to leave
your house through me. But I want you to tell me all you know about my
mother--everything. Won't you sit down? And you will have some wine?"
Mr. Cayley rang for some wine; and Annie Brunel herself poured some into
a glass, and gave it to the old man.
"I like the wine--and it's not the first time by forty year as I've
tasted his lordship's wine--but I can't abide them big blazing fires as
melts a man's marrow."
"Come outside, then," said the girl; "the day is pleasant enough
out-of-doors."
"Ah, that's better," he said; and his keen fresh face brightened up as
he stepped outside into the brisk cold air, with the brilliant sunshine
lying on the crisp snow.
The two of them walked up and down the long carriage-drive, between the
tall rows of bleak trees; and as the old man garrulously gossiped about
the past times, and his more or less confused memories, it seemed to
Annie Brunel as though the whole scene around her were unreal. The
narrowing avenue of trees, the heaped-up snow, the broad shafts of
sunlight falling across the path, the glimpses of the white meadows, and
the blue stream, and the wintry sunshine hitting on the vane of the
village church, were all so very like a theatrical "set;" while the man
beside her, whom she had never seen before, seemed to be some strange
link connecting her with a forgotten and inscrutable past. The
assurance that he would not be "turned off to follow the rest" had
softened old Brooks's usually querulous and pugnacious manner; and in
his most genial fashion he recalled and recounted whatever stories he
could remember of Annie Brunel's old childhood, and of her mother's
happy life on the margin of that Swiss lake.
He actually gossiped his companion into cheerfulness. Forgetting all
about Mr. Cayley, she went with Brooks down to the lodge; and there the
old man, intensely proud of the familiarity he had already established
between himself and her, presented to her, with calm airs of
superiority, his overawed son and daughter-in-law. And the new mistress
made herself quite at home; and had two of the children on her knee at
once; and was interested in Tom's pet blackbird; and expressed her
admiration of Jack's string of blown eggs; and finally invited all the
young ones to tea, in the housekeeper's room, that evening at six
punctually. Another visitor was expected that evening. Much as Annie
Brunel desired to play the part of a secret and invisible benefactor to
all her friends, she found that this would cut off from her any chance
of companionship; and so, before going down into Berks, she had told the
story of her altered fortunes to Nelly Featherstone, and begged of that
young person to come down and stay with her for a time. Nelly burst
into tears of joy; was profoundly conscious of the benefit of having so
desirably rich a friend; was honestly delighted and prudently
speculative at the same moment, and accepted the invitation.
Nelly was a girl of spirit. She knew she would be inspected by critical
servants, and perhaps by visitors of exalted rank, and she resolved not
to shame her old friend. She accurately sketched beforehand the
character she would assume; fixed her demeanour; decided the tone she
would adopt in speaking to Lady Annie Knottingley; and, finally, bought
the current number of _Punch_, and dressed her hair and herself in
imitation of one of the ladies of that periodical.
The carriage was sent to meet her at Corchester in the evening. The
calm dignity with which she treated the servants was admirable. Nor was
her dress less admirable, so far as a faithful copy of the _Punch_ lady
was concerned, except in point of colour. Unfortunately she had no guide
to colour, except her own rather whimsical taste; and as several parts
of her attire belonged to her dramatic wardrobe, she looked like a
well-dressed lady seen through a prism.
When she entered the house, confronted the servants, was introduced to
Mr. Cayley, and quietly went up to kiss Annie Brunel, her manner was
excellent. A woman who makes a living by studying the ridiculous, and
imitating it, can lay it aside when she chooses. Nor was her assumption
of womanly dignity and reserve less a matter of ease. Nelly
Featherstone was clever enough to conceal herself from the eyes of a
critical London audience; surely she was able to impose on a lot of
country servants, and a lawyer inexperienced in theatrical affairs.
When she came into the drawing-room before dinner, her make-up was
magnificent. She was a little too gorgeous, certainly; but in these
days considerable latitude is allowed in colour and shape. Miss Brunel
was alone.
"Why, Nelly," she said, "what was the use of your troubling to make
yourself so fine? I must have put you to so much expense."
"Well, you have," said the other. "But it isn't every day I dine at a
grand house."
"And you mustn't talk to me as if I were a duchess merely because Mr.
Cayley is present. I have asked him to dine with us. You must speak to
me as you are speaking now."
"Oh, no, my dear, it would never do," said the practical Nelly, with a
wise shake of the head. "If you don't remember who you are, I must.
You are a fine lady; I am an actress. If you ask me to visit you, it is
because you wish me to amuse you. But when I'm not amusing you, I must
be respectful. Mr. Cayley knows who I am; the servants don't. I can be
grand to them; but with him----"
"My absurd girl, why won't you be yourself? You don't need to care for
Mr. Cayley, or the servants, or any one else. Mr. Cayley knows I was an
actress; if the servants don't, they will very soon. And you are here
merely as my friend; and I am deeply indebted to you for coming; and if
Mr. Melton will only refrain from changing the pieces for weeks to come,
we shall have a pleasant romp together down here. By the way, did you
hear some absurd noises a few minutes ago?"
"I did."
"That was my first token of popularity. I had the lodge-keeper's
children up here to tea; and as they all got a lump of cake when they
went away, they collected round the door outside and cheered. I think
they call that intimidation and bribery--buying the popular vote, or
something of the kind."
During dinner an obvious battle was being waged between Nelly and the
butler. But the official and cumbrous dignity of the one was no match
for the splendid and haughty languor of Nelly's eyes, and the indolent
indifference of her manner and tone. Somehow the notice of the servants
was chiefly drawn to Miss Featherstone; but she decidedly managed to
conquer them, and that in a style which puzzled and amused her friend at
the head of the table. Nor would Nelly permit the least familiarity of
approach on the part of her hostess. And as it would have been
preposterous to have chatted confidentially with a person who returned
these advances with a marked deference and respect, "my lady" fell into
her friend's whim, and the conversation at dinner was consequently
somewhat peculiar.
When the two women were left alone, however, Annie Brunel strongly
remonstrated. But Nelly was firm:
"If you don't know who you are, I do."
Drawing two low easy-chairs in towards the fire, they sat down and
entered into mutual confidences. The one had much to tell--the other
much to suggest; and never had two children more delight in planning
what they would do if they were emperors, than had these two girls in
concocting plots for the benefit of all the persons they knew, and a
great many more.
Miss Brunel took a note from her pocket, and gave it to her companion to
read.
"In strict confidence," she added.
These were the words Nelly saw:--"_A friend, who has urgent reasons for
remaining unknown has placed to the credit of Mr. Hubert Anerley, at the
London and Westminster Bank, the sum of_ 30,000*l. Mr. Anerley is asked
to accept this money as a free and frankly-offered gift, to be used on
behalf of himself and his family. A bank-note of* 100*l. is enclosed,
to satisfy Mr. Anerley that this communication is made in good faith.*"
"Thirty thousand pounds!" said Nelly, in an awed whisper. "I have often
thought of some one sending me a lot of money--thousands, millions of
money--but I think if any one were actually to send me a hundred pounds,
I should die of surprise first and joy afterwards."
"The money has already been placed to his account at the bank; and this
note will be sent to him to-morrow, when Mr. Cayley returns to town. How
I should like to send old White the prompter a hundred pounds--the poor
old man who has that dreadful wife!"
"Don't do anything of the kind, my dear," said Nelly, sagely. "He would
starve his wife worse than ever, because he wouldn't earn a penny until
he had drunk every farthing of the money you sent him."
"Perhaps you will forbid my giving you anything?"
"Certainly not; I should be glad of a cup of tea or coffee."
"Which?"
"I like coffee best, but I prefer tea," said Nelly, with grave
impartiality.
Tea and coffee having been procured, they continued their talk.
"You went to my lodgings?"
"Yes."
"And secured them for an indefinite time?"
"Yes."
"And all my clothes and things are as I left them?"
"Yes--that is, as far as I could look over them. Mr. Glyn was with me."
"Oh, he has forgiven you again!"
"Certainly not," said Nelly, with a touch of indignation. "_He_ has not
forgiven me, for I never provoked a quarrel with him in my life. He has
come to his senses, that is all; and he is no sooner come to them than
he is off again. But this is the final blow; he will never get over
this."
"This what?"
"My disappearance from London without telling him. I go back. He comes
to see me; is surprised, offended; wants me to be penitent for having
annoyed him by my silence. Of course I am not. Then he becomes angry,
demands to know where I have been. I tell him that is my business, and
he goes off in a fury. _That's_ nothing new. But then he sends me a
formal note, saying that unless I write to him and explain my absence
from London he will never see me again."
"Which you will do?"
"How could I without telling him about you?"
"Say you went to visit a friend."
"Then he says, 'What friend?' with a face as black as thunder. I reply
that I won't be subjected to his suspicions. He retorts that he is not
suspicious; but that common-sense, and what not, and what not. I tell
him that he dare not talk to a lady of his own class in the way he talks
to me; and that it is because I am an actress that he is suspicious,
taking up the vulgar prejudices against actresses. Now, all the time I
have known him, I don't think we ever passed a day without having a
quarrel about the profession."
"Your acquaintanceship must have been agreeable?"
"It has. There is nothing both of us like so much as quarrelling and
making-up. For my part, I couldn't bear to have a sweetheart always
pleasant, and reasonable, and sensible. I like one who is madly in
love, who does extravagant things, who quarrels fearfully, and gets
frantic with delight when you let him be friends again."
"But the very last time we spoke of Mr. Glyn you said he and you would
never get on together, because he wanted those very virtues of solidity,
and common-sense, and manly forbearance. You said he was too like
yourself."
"Did I say so? Well, I have a different explanation of it every day. I
only know that we perpetually quarrel, and that the making-up of
quarrels is very nice."
"What would you do if I were to give you L500 a-year?"
"Go to Paris, and drive in the Bois de Boulogne with a pair of ponies,"
replied Nelly, with admirable precision.
"Wouldn't you marry Mr. Glyn, leave the stage, and be comfortable in
some small house at Hampstead?"
"No," she said, frankly; "I haven't got the domestic faculty. I should
worry his life out in a few months."
"What do you say, then, to going with me to America? I mean to leave
England for a long time--for some years--and I shall spend most of the
time in America, visiting the places my mother and I used to know."
"You are going to leave England?" said Nelly, looking up with earnest,
curious eyes.
"Yes."
"You will forgive my saying it--you have had some peculiar secret from
me for a long time--not your coming here, but something quite different.
I knew that when you suddenly left the stage, and wouldn't return, for
no reason whatever. Why should _you_ have left the stage, of all
people?"
"I left it simply because I got to dislike it--to hate it!"
Nelly Featherstone said nothing, but she was evidently not satisfied
with the answer. She remained unusually thoughtful for some time.
"And now you are going to America," she said. "Is there no other reason
besides your wish to visit those places you speak of?"
"There is; but it is of no consequence to any one."