|IT is the morning after the Derby Day, and Sir Richard, who has never
had a shilling upon that national event, yet reads with interest the
prose-poem upon the subject in the _Times_, over the breakfast-table,
and even favours Letty--which is so unusual a piece of graciousness,
that it almost suggests the idea of making amends for something--with
extracts from the same, aloud. He and his sister are alone at the
morning meal, for my Lady, as is often the case now, has had her tea
and dry toast sent up to her in her own room, as also a couple of
letters--one from Arthur Haldane, and one with the Paris post-mark, and
in a foreign hand.
“Lord Stonart is said to have netted forty thousand pounds: just think
of that, Letty.”
“Yes, Richard; but then think of the poor people that lost it.”
“Poor people should not bet,” returned the baronet severely. “I am sorry
for Mr Chifney, since, if he had not quarrelled with his Lordship, the
winner would have come out of his stables. As it was, he very nearly
accomplished it with that French horse _Menclaus_--a success which I
should, as an Englishman, have much deplored.”
“Dear me! was not that the horse in which Walter was so much
interested?”
“I am sure I don't know, Letty. I should think my brother had no money
to spare for the race-course, under present circumstances: he could
surely never be such a fool.”
“Very likely not, Richard. I never said a word about his risking money;
I only said he was 'interested.'”
“Ah!” rejoined the baronet significantly, “I dare say;” and then
he began to whistle, as was not unusual with him when thoroughly
displeased. Presently, however, recollecting that this was not a
sociable sort of thing to do, Sir Richard abruptly observed: “Mamma had
a letter from Paris this morning, and in a foreign hand; I wonder who
her correspondent is. I do not think she has heard from abroad since
immediately after our poor father's death. Then I remember several of
her old French friends wrote to her.”
“I hope it is no ill news of any kind, for I am getting quite anxious
about dear mamma, Richard. Ever since Christmas last, she has seemed to
get more and more depressed.”
“I have only observed it lately,” answered the baronet, rather stiffly;
“and I am sure we have not far to look for the reason.--By the by, there
was a letter for her from Arthur Haldane also.”
“Oh! was there?” said Letty carelessly, but turning a lively pink. Then
after a short pause, during which the baronet resumed his paper: “If you
will not have another cup of coffee, Richard, I think I will go up and
see mamma.”
At that moment, the door opened, and my Lady herself entered the room.
Her cheeks were ashy pale, but her eyes were beaming with excitement,
and the hand in which she held an open letter trembled as she spoke.
“Oh, I have got such good news, Richard!”
“What! from Arthur?” cried Letty. “Ah! I thought he would arrange
everything as it should be.”
Sir Richard frowned, and seemed about to speak, but did not do so.
“Yes, I have heard from Arthur too,” said my Lady; “and very
satisfactorily, although, perhaps, there may be matters which may
require my presence in town for a day or two.”
“You may always command my services, mother: I can start at five
minutes' notice,” said Sir Richard gravely.
“No, my dear hoy; if I have to go at all--which is not certain--I shall
certainly go alone, or rather with nobody but Mary. You will be full of
preparations for your _fête_, I know, for one only comes of age once in
one's lifetime; and besides, to tell you the truth, you would be of
no use at all.” Here she kissed him tenderly, and pushed her fingers
through his brown curls lingeringly, as though she was already wishing
him farewell. “But the good news I speak of is a much more selfish
affair than you dream of. I have had a letter from my dear old friend,
Madame de Castellan, who used to be so good to me when I was no older
than you, Letty, at Dijon.”
“I remember her,” said Sir Richard. “She came to stay at the Abbey
when I was about nine, did she not, and took such a fancy to dear
old Belcomb? She said that she and I would marry so soon as I got old
enough, and set up an establishment in the little cottage. A charming
old lady, with snow-white hair, but a slight deficiency of teeth.”
“Just so,” answered my Lady. “She always vowed she would have nothing
false about her, as long as she lived, and she is alive now, and
apparently very hearty. But she has had some money losses, as well as
certain domestic misfortunes, which induce her to seek an entire change
of life. It is a most singular thing that you should have recollected
her passion for Belcomb, for it is about that very place that she has
written. She wishes to know whether she could be our tenant there, at
all events for the summer. The matter is in your hands, Richard, or will
be so in a week or two, but I confess I should like to have her for a
neighbour exceedingly.”
“Then by all means write and say 'Come,'” cried the baronet; “and why
not let her have Belcomb rent free? I dare say she would not mind our
having our picnics there occasionally; and it is really no loss to me,
for I don't believe anybody but herself would dream of taking it, except
in the shooting season.”
“Then that is arranged,” answered my Lady joyfully. “I am to write by
return of post,” she says ; “and if the letter says 'Yes,' that then we
may expect her any day. She will bring her own French maid; and I will
drive over to-day, and arrange about old Rachel and her husband, who, of
course, must be no losers, if they have to leave. That must be Madame's
own affair, if she is really to have the place for nothing. See how
affectionately the dear old lady writes, and what a capital hand,
considering her advanced age!”
“Yes, indeed,” said Sir Richard, elevating his eyebrows: “only, to say
the truth, I am not good at French manuscript----”
“Although a master of that language, when in printed books,” interrupted
Letty.
“Well, the fact is they didn't teach that sort of thing at Eton in my
time,” answered the baronet frankly; “or, at all events, they didn't
teach _me_. However, French is not so bad as German, that I will say.
One _can_ pronounce it without speaking from the pit of one's stomach.”
“Yes, one can--after a fashion,” laughed Letty a little scornfully; but
her elder brother seemed resolved to take all her bantering in good part
that morning, as the imperial lion will sometimes tolerate the gambols
of a companion kitten. “I don't think, however,” she continued, “Madame
de Castellan, who comes from Paris, will quite understand _you_,
Richard.--How nicely she speaks of Mary, mamma. Why, how comes she to
know so much about _her?_”
“Why, when I went to Dijon, before my marriage, Mary Forest went with
me, you know, and remained there several years.”
“Ah, yes, of course; I had forgotten.”
“And when we were at the--the college,” continued my Lady, with a slight
tinge of colour, “Madame took pity upon us both, being foreigners, and
was kind to us beyond all measure. Many a happy day have we passed
in her pretty chateau together; and indeed I think I owe my Parisian
pronunciation--of which you seem to make so much, Letty--at least as
much to Madame de Castellan as to my paid teachers. She never could
speak English, if you remember, Richard; everything she addressed to you
had to be translated.”
“Dear me,” answered the baronet hastily, “I don't like that. I hope
she has learned English since then. It places one in a very humiliating
position to be talked to in a language one does not understand; unless
you can treat the person as a savage, which, to say the truth, I always
feel inclined to do.”
“Well, Richard,” said my Lady smiling, “if I am not at your elbow when
Madame de Castellan calls, there will be always Letty here, who is
cunning in such tongue-fence, to protect you; but, as a matter of fact,
we shall see my poor old friend but very seldom. She is a good deal
broken, I fear, by time, and still more by trouble”--here my Lady's own
voice began to quaver a little--“and all she seems to desire is quiet
and seclusion, before her day of rest at last shall dawn.”
“She will be very welcome,” answered Sir Richard tenderly. “I hope that
you will cause everything for her comfort to be looked to at Belcomb,
and I will again repeat my orders to Rinkel that the place is to be kept
quite free from trespassers.”
He rose and kissed his mother, then, as he left the room, delayed with
his fingers on the door-handle, saying: “Have Walter and--and his wife
consented to be present at my Coming of Age?”
“Certainly, dear Richard: they will both be very pleased to come--nay,
Arthur thinks that they may return to the Abbey immediately. It is
scarcely worth while for them to take a house, or rather lodgings, at
Canterbury, since they are to be here so soon. Walter has leave now, it
seems, and there will be no difficulty in getting it prolonged almost
indefinitely: he can do anything he likes with his colonel, you know, as
indeed”----
“Exactly,” interrupted Sir Richard drily. “Then I suppose they will be
back in a few days.” And with that he placed the door between himself
and the threatened eulogy upon Master Walter.
“Was there any particular message for me, mamma?” inquired Letty
demurely.
“From Walter? No, dear. He sent his love to us all; but of course he
feels a little embarrassed, and perhaps scarcely understands that he has
been forgiven. Oh, I forgot: you meant was there any particular message
from Arthur Haldane, you exacting little puss! Why, he only left us
yesterday morning! But don't be vexed, my darling. You have won the love
of a man who knows your worth almost as well as I do. He may not be so
brilliant or so handsome as our darling Walter--and indeed who is?--but
I must say he has shewn much better taste in choosing a wife. He has
both wisdom and goodness, my darling child, and I firmly believe your
future happiness is assured.”
“Yes, dearest mother, I do believe it; but”----Here Letty's eyes began
not only to sparkle, but to distil pearls and diamonds in the most
lavish and apparently uncalled-for profusion.
“Why, what is the matter now, my love?” inquired my Lady.
“Nothing, mamma--nothing at least that I should have thought it worth
while to tell you, had I not been overcome by your kind words. I know
you have got troubles enough of your own; I did not mean to tell you,
indeed I did not; I tried to forget it myself. Only last night, after
you had gone to bed, Richard sat up with me talking about his future,
and it seems he has made some plan for mine. He spoke of Mr Charles Vane
as a person he would like to have for a brother-in-law. He bade me be
particularly civil to him at the coming _fête_; and when I said that
I did not very much care about Mr Vane--and, in fact, that I had
already---- O mamma, Richard said some very cruel things. He reminded
me that one member of the family had already made a disreputable
marriage”----
“That was an ungenerous speech, and very unlike my Richard,” interposed
my Lady with emphasis. “Why, he would have married Rose himself.”
“So I have sometimes thought,” replied Letty simply: “but to do him
justice, I think he was referring to the clandestine character of the
marriage rather than to the match itself. However, when he used the word
disreputable in connection with Arthur Haldane, he made me very angry,
I own. I told him that Arthur was worth all the Vanes that had ever been
born, whether there might have been nineteen generations of them (as he
boasted) or a hundred and ninety. And I am afraid, dear mamma, that
I snapped my fingers, and said I did not care _that_, when he accused
dearest Arthur of not having a great-grandfather. At all events, Richard
stalked out of the drawing-room vastly offended; and although he has
been endeavouring to be extra civil to me this morning, I know that it
is only that he may again introduce the very objectionable subject of
Mr Charles Vane; and when I say 'No' with decision, as of course I shall
do, I fear that he may take it upon himself to write to Arthur; and
then, dearest mother, the Haldanes are so proud, you know, that I don't
know what may happen.”
Strange as it may seem, there had flitted across my Lady's face during
this recital a look of something like Relief--for it surely could not
have been Satisfaction--but it speedily gave place to that expression of
distress that had become only too habitual to her once serene and comely
features. Perhaps, accustomed to mischance as she now was, she had
expected even more unwelcome news, and had felt momentarily thankful
matters were no worse; but now all was gloom again.
“You were quite right to tell me this, Letty, even though it does give
me a new cause for grief. If I know Arthur Haldane, he will not desert
his betrothed wife on account of any slight that may be put upon him by
any other human being. You may be quite at ease about that, I am very
sure. But these dissensions and disagreements among my own children--I
know it is not your fault, dear Letty--but I feel that I cannot bear up
under them. You will not have me with you here much longer.”
“O mamma--dear, dear mamma, how selfish it was of me thus to afflict
you further. But don't, don't talk like that. What should we do without
you--you the sole bond that unites your boys together: and _I_? O
mother, what would become of _me?_ You don't know how I love you.”
“Yes, darling, I do. You are tenderhearted as you are dutiful. And my
boys, to do them justice, they love me too; but they are wearing me
into my grave. At least, I feel it would be far better if I were lying
there.”
“O mamma, mamma,” sighed Letty, covering my Lady's tearful face with
kisses, “you will break my heart if you talk so.”
“You will have somebody better able to-take care of you even than I,
dear child, when I am gone. And I will see that it is so. Yes, I will
leave directions behind me--you will find them in my desk, Letty;
remember this, should anything happen to me--about that matter as well
as other things. Richard will respect my wishes in such a case, I know,
and will offer no opposition.”
“But, dearest mother, do you feel ill,” cried Letty in an agony, “that
you talk of such things as these? Let us send for the doctor from
Dalwynch. How I wish that Arthur's father could be prevailed on to come
and see you! O mamma! I would rather die than you, although I am sure I
am not half so fit for death!”
“Dear child, dear child!” sobbed my Lady. “It will be a bitter parting
indeed for both of us--when the time comes. Perhaps it may not be so
near at hand as I feared. In the meantime, rest assured, love, that if
I feel a doctor can do me any good, he shall be sent for at once. But it
is the mind, and not the body, which has need of medicine.--There, dry
your eyes, and let us hope for the best. You will drive over with me
this afternoon, will you not, to Belcomb? There is no time to lose in
getting things ready there for our new tenant.”
END OF VOL. II.
End of Project Gutenberg's Mirk Abbey, Volume 2(of 3), by James Payn