“SHE IS NOT BENEATH ME.”
Contrary to her own and Brownie’s expectations, and somewhat to the
disappointment of the latter, Lady Ruxley decided to return to West
Malling the next afternoon. She had taken cold the night previous, and
was not so well as usual, and thought she would feel better to be at
home.
“I shall come soon, my darling,” Adrian had managed to whisper, as he
handed Brownie into the carriage, and then stood wistfully watching it
until it was out of sight.
Lady Ruxley reached home about five, where she found awaiting her a
summons to Vallingham Hall.
Lady Randal was planning a musical _soirée_, to come off the following
week, and requested her aunt to lend her Miss Dundas’ services for the
occasion. She also stated that it would take three or four days’
practice to prepare for the occasion; meanwhile they were invited to
make the Hall their home, she promising that her ladyship should have
every comfort and attention, and be assigned rooms in as quiet a portion
of the house as possible.
“It will do the child good; she has perked up wonderfully in the last
two days by just going over to Dunforth Castle,” mused the old lady, who
continued to marvel at the wondrous change in her usually sad companion.
Wholly unmindful of the aches and pains which had hurried her home from
Dunforth Castle, she rang the bell a furious peal for her maid.
“Pack up a week’s supply of clothing, and have it ready by ten
to-morrow. We go to Vallingham Hall for a seven days’ visit.”
With which command, she left the astonished Minnett and hobbled away to
find Brownie and impart the news to her.
Brownie, as soon as she had removed her wrappings, repaired to the
conservatory, and was greatly surprised when she heard Lady Ruxley’s
cane come clinking over the tiled floor, supposing her to be snug in
bed, and enjoying the delights of a rousing rum-sweat—her favorite
remedy for colds and rheumatics.
“I thought I should find you here,” her ladyship said, as Brownie arose
quickly and came forward to lead her to a chair. “You like birds and
flowers, don’t you?” she added, keenly regarding the lovely, smiling
face and sparkling eyes.
“Yes, my lady, I am exceedingly fond of them. But are you not imprudent
to come here, where it is so damp, with your cold?” she asked, as she
seated her and placed a hassock at her feet. She was ever tenderly
mindful of her comfort.
“No, no, child; I’m all right now I am home again. I never feel well
when I’m visiting—that is,” she hastened to add “in strange places. It
did you good, though; you have more color, and look brighter.”
“Yes, I am much better than when I first came to West Malling,” Brownie
admitted, with a conscious blush.
“Yes, the trip to the castle did you much good, undoubtedly,” persisted
her ladyship, nodding and chuckling knowingly.
“It was a change, you know.”
“Yes, yes; that’s it. Young folks need change. I was a fool not to think
of it before. I might have known that a young, bright thing like you
would droop and pine, hived up with a croning old owl like me for
company.”
“Pray, dear Lady Ruxley, do not talk so!” Brownie interrupted, eagerly,
and much distressed at her words. “Indeed, I have been very happy with
you—much more so than I was during the five months previous.”
“I know—I know all about it. You’re plucky, and you will not own it to
me. But you’ve been lonely and sad. I’ve got eyes, and I can see for
myself. You went away from here pale, sad and quiet; you come back rosy,
happy, almost gay, and the life, music, and company up yonder was what
you needed, and you shall have some more of it. I like to see folks
bright and chipper about me.”
Brownie felt more and more guilty.
But her next words filled her with still deeper dismay.
“They’ve got a houseful of company, as usual, up at the Hall, and we go
there, too, to-morrow, to stop a few days.”
“Indeed, Lady Ruxley, I hope you are not going on my account. I do not
desire or need company, and I should really prefer to remain quietly
here,” she said, in distress.
“Oh! I’ve got eyes—good ones, too, if they are old; besides, Lady Randal
desires it. She is getting up a _soirée_, and desires your services as
musician. She sent a note to-day, asking me.”
“But—but you are not well. Really, I think it would be best for neither
of us to go.”
“Oh, I’m all right, and I’ve given Minnett orders to have everything in
readiness by to-morrow at ten. You will please be ready by that time,
too,” returned her ladyship, somewhat impatiently, who thought the young
girl hesitated about going only on her account.
That settled it, of course.
Brownie could not refuse point-blank to go, but her heart grew faint
within her at the thought of meeting the Coolidges, and particularly
under an assumed name.
Of course, she could not avoid meeting them, and doubtless they would
reveal all the past to both Lady Randal and Lady Ruxley.
They would tell their story about the jewels, and of that scene with
Wilbur, and the way she had left their employ.
Yet what need had she to fear Isabel Coolidge, or, indeed, any one, now
that she had Adrian to lean upon and protect her?
With this brighter thought in her mind, she sought her own room to
prepare for her absence and the approaching gayeties, which, after all,
she began to anticipate with something of pleasure and interest.
Meanwhile, a very different scene was being enacted at Dunforth Castle.
As soon as Lady Ruxley’s carriage was driven from sight, Adrian Dredmond
turned to his grandfather, saying, gravely:
“Can I have a private interview with you, sir?”
“Yes, yes, my boy, of course; come into my sanctum at once.”
He led the way to the luxuriously appointed library, where a cheerful
fire in the grate toned the chill air to just the right temperature, and
gave the lofty, beautiful room an appearance of homelike comfort.
“Well, now, what is it, Ad?” the old man asked, familiarly, as he threw
himself into his easy-chair, and bent a look of pride upon the young
lover’s handsome, animated face.
Adrian colored, but, coming to the point at once said:
“Sir, I desire your permission to marry.”
“Bless my soul, my boy! What’s this?” and he sat up and stared at his
grandson for a moment, as if he had never thought of such a thing before
in connection with him.
“Well, well,” he added the next; “you took me rather by surprise; that’s
a fact; but, after all, you couldn’t please me better. Aha! that
accounts for your hurry to get back to London, doesn’t it?”
“Yes—no,” replied Adrian, somewhat confused, and yet half-laughing at
his grandfather’s comical surprise and ready acquiescence to his
request.
“Yes—no,” repeated his lordship, with a merry twinkle in his eye; “that
is rather a doubtful reply. But, seriously, Adrian, my boy, nothing
would give me greater satisfaction than to see you settled in life; and
I have no doubt but that the lady of your choice is in every way
desirable.”
“She is, sir, a perfect lady, highly educated and accomplished, and
there never was, in my opinion, a more beautiful Countess of Dunforth
than she will make,” returned the ardent lover, who felt that everything
was progressing finely.
“Yes, yes; that is always so with lovers. I remember——”
What he remembered he did not say, but his face grew wan and sad, as he
suddenly checked himself.
Then he resumed, more gravely:
“The lady is of good birth, of course?”
“Yes, sir, excellent,” Adrian returned, recalling what his friend Gordon
had said about Miss Mehetabel’s “family tree.” Then he added: “But
misfortune of a very serious nature has deprived her during the last six
or eight months of all her property, and death of her last friend.”
“That is bad, truly, my boy; but, then, you will have enough, and to
spare, and I would be the last one to put anything in the way of your
happiness for the lack of filthy lucre. You love the lady, of course?”
and he searched the noble face that he loved so well.
“As my own life!” Adrian said, earnestly.
“Ah! you have been a sly dog to get so far as this and we never
suspected it. Who is the fair inamorata?”
“You would not deem it anything out of the way, I presume, sir, if a
lady of good birth should be reduced to the necessity of becoming a
governess or a companion?” Adrian asked, ignoring the question, and
determined to lay all the facts before his grandfather before telling
his darling’s name.
“Zounds, Adrian! Has it been so bad as that in the case of your
ladylove?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then the quicker you marry her, and relieve her dire necessity the
better,” his lordship said, little thinking how he was committing
himself.
“Thank you. Yes, sir, it came to that, as I told you some six or eight
months ago.”
“But—what is this? Why, you were in America at that time,” and he began
to fidget uneasily.
“Yes, sir; I met the lady in America.”
“Ah, ha!”
This time Lord Dunforth scowled disapprobation. He had the English
prejudice against English nobility intermarrying with American
plebeianism, so-called.
Adrian noticed his look, and his heart sank.
“My lord,” he said, “you have seen the lady, and acknowledged her
loveliness. I heard you tell Sir Charles that she was very beautiful,
and too much of a lady for the position which she occupies. I assure
you, and I speak advisedly, that she is of good birth, and fitted in
every way to be my wife. She is companion to Lady Ruxley. Have I still
your permission to marry her?”
His lordship stared at his grandson in dismay.
“Miss Dundas, Adrian!” he exclaimed, aghast, his fine face flushing a
deep crimson.
“Miss Douglas, my lord,” corrected Adrian, somewhat proudly.
His lordship did not notice the correction. His head was bent in deep
thought, his brow was knotted, his lips compressed. At length, looking
up, he said, with emotion:
“My boy, your happiness is of the greatest importance to me, and has
always been my first consideration. I know what it is to love deeply,
and the anguish which follows the loss of a loved one”—his voice
quivered painfully. “But,” he added, “it is better to give up an
unworthy love than to marry beneath you, and then repent of it when it
is too late.”
“Sir, the lady is not unworthy, and I shall never repent making her my
wife,” Adrian said, indignantly; then continued, speaking rapidly: “I
told you that she descended from a highly respectable family. They were
English, too, and removed to America many years ago. They were very
wealthy at that time, but a series of misfortunes deprived them of this.
I learned this from my friend, Gordon, whom, you remember, I met two
years ago in Germany. He vouched for her respectability, and told me he
had seen the ‘family tree,’ and that they traced back their ancestry to
the Scottish nobility.”
“But it must be very remote. Besides, she was born and reared in
America, and has not a friend living, as you say, to prove her
respectability, and all this would be very disagreeable to establish.”
“The fact that I have chosen her for my wife would be sufficient to
establish her respectability without any questioning,” replied Adrian,
proudly.
“But I want you to have an English wife, Adrian—one who will fill her
position proudly and creditably.”
“I am as eager for that, my lord, as you can possibly be,” said the
young man, with a quiet smile, as he thought how perfectly Brownie would
reign in those grand old halls.
“How came she to be in England if she was so reduced in circumstances?”
“She came over as governess with a family, in the same steamer with
myself.”
“How does it happen that they did not retain her—that she left them to
be companion to a woman like Lady Ruxley?” demanded his lordship, his
face beginning to grow stern and set.
Adrian colored vividly. He knew it did not sound well, but he was truth
itself, and replied:
“She was ill-treated and insulted—in fact, was accused of taking that
which did not belong to her.”
“Enough, sir! No person with any such record can ever become allied to
my family!” burst forth Lord Dunforth, rising from his chair in wrath.
“But, sir, let me explain——”
“No, sir!” he thundered; “not another word! I am astonished and
disappointed in you, Adrian, that you could so demean yourself as to
desire to marry any one so far beneath you!”
“She is not beneath me,” began the indignant lover, hotly.
“Not another word, Adrian, if you please, on the subject, unless you
wish to incur my stern displeasure. You, the future Earl of Dunforth,
marry a person accused of theft! Never!” and he paced the floor, with
angry strides.
Suddenly he wheeled upon his grandson, and demanded:
“May I ask, have you made proposals to this very estimable person?”
“I have, my lord.” The manly eyes blazed dangerously at this almost
insulting question, while his hands worked nervously at the biting
sarcasm of his grandfather’s words.
“Fool!”
“Sir!”
“You’re a fool, I say!”
The two men glared at each other furiously for a moment. Then Adrian,
growing very pale, moved a step or two back, and said, in a quiet,
though concentrated voice:
“Then I am to understand that you refuse your consent to my marrying?”
“I do, most emphatically refuse to allow you to marry any such doubtful
person as Lady Ruxley’s companion appears to be. Shame upon you stooping
so low!”
“Then, my Lord Dunforth, listen to me,” Adrian said, flushing angrily,
and drawing his proud form to its fullest height. “I love this gentle
girl with my whole heart; I have told her so, and I have asked her to be
my wife. I am of age, and, sir, I shall marry her!”
Lord Dunforth suddenly wheeled about, and came forward with rapid
strides.
The two proud men stood looking steadfastly into each other’s eyes for a
moment, and each read there a determination never to yield.
“Then you are no longer a child of mine!” whispered the irate lord,
hoarsely, his whole frame shaking from anger, disappointment, and
mortification.
“Grandfather,” returned Adrian, sadly, “you know I love you, and would
gladly do anything in reason to please you; but the happiness of two
lives is at stake, and in this matter I must choose for myself.”
There was a note of quiet determination in his voice, albeit it was so
sad, which told the other that he meant every word he uttered.
“Then choose for yourself,” he cried, almost beside himself with grief
and mortified pride, “and choose beggary with your wife, for not one
shilling from the Dunforth coffers shall you ever touch!”
“But I am not a beggar quite yet, my lord; I have my own income,”
returned Adrian, proudly, yet smiling, in spite of himself, for his
income was no mean one.
“Then leave me—begone!”
“Sir——”
“Not another word, unless you will yield to me!” shouted the earl.
“I cannot!”
“Then go! Marry your plebian beggar, and never darken Dunforth’s doors
again!”
“Is that your ultimatum? Have you no sympathy nor mercy?” asked Adrian,
growing very white about the mouth, though his eyes gleamed with a lurid
light.
His lordship caught his breath hard at these questions. Who should have
sympathy if not he? But he would not yield.
“It is my ultimatum. I have no sympathy with anything like that,” he
said, yet the face of his own lost love arose before him at that moment
like a phantom.
With an inclination of his haughty head, Adrian turned and left the room
without another word.