The Admiral's Daughter (22 page)

“A very tragic marriage, too, Miss Trevor, if I am not mistaken. Where there is a great difference in birth, there is nearly always a tragic ending. I am sure that had not Lady Ramblay died when she did, an even more unhappy resolution might have been reached. I know her ladyship did not approve of the match. It was against all her better judgment that her son was married to begin with, and now I suppose he must admit his mother was not mistaken, for I am told—” Mr. Wayland had the happy gift of making a piece of gossip take on the proportions of a generally held view, related to him by a great authority— “that he
now
intends marrying the young lady his mother had always hoped would be her daughter. A great lady of noble family, I believe.”

Twice Maggie had been told—first by Mrs. Black and now by Mr. Wayland—that her cousin had not chosen Miss Montcrieff himself, but was in fact complying to his mother's wishes in paying court to her. The news interested her more than she would admit, and nearly obscured the amusement she felt at hearing Diana Montcrieff described as a “great lady.” Her own opinion of her cousin's betrothed more nearly matched Mrs. Black's—“a vain piece of muslin.”

Aloud, however, she said, “Yes, yes, Mr. Wayland—but did you know a child was born while Lady Ramblay lived? I suppose you must, for indeed it appears that
I
am the only one who has never been told very much. The child is mute, and has been since his mama's death.”

The Vicar pursed his lips, attempting to remember what his housekeeper had said upon the subject. He was a little shocked at Miss Trevor's manner, which seemed to him to lack that solemn respect for her betters that he considered she should exhibit when speaking of them.

“The child is mute, you say—very true, very true. A tragic instance of our Savior's justice. And yet I am informed Lord Ramblay will not accept the boy's fate, but persists in commissioning specialists in the art of medicine from all over Europe to try and cure the child. I suppose he cannot resign himself to the fact that God's will is done.”

“And would you?” cried Maggie. “Would you watch a child suffer all his life? In
that
respect, I confess I am completely of my cousin's mind——”

But Maggie cut herself short before she had time to continue. She had nearly burst out, with the immediate passion of her nature, what had been in her mind since she had learned of the existence of the child. But whatever ill she might suspect of her cousin, she would not let a stranger know of it. Mr. Wayland, however, was more interested in pursuing his own idea than in listening to Maggie.'s.

“Allow me to say, Miss Trevor—for indeed, I think my position gives me a little more credence than another man might have—that where the Lord has chosen to show his anger, no mortal can dissuade him from it. It is true that some miracles have been acknowledged, even since the time of Christ, but in our enlightened age we must not expect such kinds of supernatural tricks. I believe Lord Ramblay is mistaken in pursuing the matter so far. And I think I shall make it among my first efforts here to try to persuade him of the fact.”

Maggie would have warned against such a tactic. The idea of her cousin, already convinced of the Vicar's foolishness, listening to any such advice brought a smile to her lips, and yet she did not like to think of even Mr. Wayland inviting the kind of cutting criticism she believed such a deed would bring down upon him. She was saved from an argument with Mr. Wayland, however, by a sudden noise ahead of them. They had by now entered the little wood, which consisted of no more than two dozen slender trees. The view into the courtyard was nearly unobstructed. Through the branches Maggie could discern a rectangular patch of lawn, in the center of which, lying in the midst of
a patch of dark green shadow, was a small fountain in the shape of a zephyr. Save for the splashing of water on marble and the faint rustle of dry leaves, there was no other sound. Something in the unnatural quiet of the place, actually heightened by these sounds, had struck her as peculiarly eerie. The sound of a door opening, and being closed quietly again, came like a clap of thunder in the stillness.

Mr. Wayland had stopped speaking when he felt Maggie's gloved hand upon his arm. For a moment he did not see what made her purse her lips in a silencing gesture, but then he, too, perceived the two figures. A woman perhaps forty years of age, dressed in a dark cloak and bonnet, appeared first. She walked a little way into the courtyard, and then turned about, holding out her hand as if beckoning.

“Come, James,” she called, and Maggie immediately took a liking to the low, melodious sound of her voice. “Come along then, pet. There now, why haven't you brought along your ball? Oh, deary me—I hope you are not going to sulk all afternoon. The horrid surgeon has gone away, and shan't come back. Come along now, child!”

The woman's voice was gentle, but contained a note of briskness, as in one much accustomed to dealing with children. She stood patiently holding out her hand in exactly the same attitude for a full minute before the small figure of a little boy, who could not have been more than five or six years old, stepped reluctantly into the courtyard. Maggie had half expected to see a twisted little body, or some other obvious sign of long illness. But the little boy walked perfectly upright, and if he was a trifle thin, if the color in his cheeks was paler than it ought to be, he seemed at first like any ordinary little boy. He walked slowly up to the woman, who must be his nurse, and slipped his hand into her own without a sound.

“Why! There is the child now!” cried Mr. Wayland, in a voice which nearly made Maggie jump. She had hoped to remain silently watching a little longer, and now was dismayed to see that the nurse, too, had heard him. She turned around abruptly, the color draining from her cheeks, and peered through the orchard.

“Who is there?” she called, in a voice that struck Maggie as almost fearful. But without waiting for a reply, she
leaned down and picked up the child hurriedly, holding him to her as if some harm might come to him.

“Why, what a strange way of going!” declared Mr. Wayland upon seeing this, and, taking two long strides forward, called out: “Fear nothing, my good woman! I am the new Vicar here, Mr. Wayland, and I am with the child's cousin.”

This news apparently did so little to calm the nurse's apprehension that she only clung harder to the little boy, and even seemed in two minds about staying where she was or running back into the castle. But Maggie, fearing to lose this opportunity of speaking to the woman, had run ahead of Mr. Wayland and in an instant was standing next to her.

“Oh, please do not run away!” she exclaimed, reaching out a hand. “I have been so eager to meet my little cousin!”

The nurse stared doubtfully back. A glance at Mr. Wayland, standing with his immensely long legs astride as if he were in fear of being toppled by an unknown enemy, a self-important expression upon his simpering face, gave her little consolation. The child, too, had been so frightened by his booming voice that his head was instantly buried in the nurse's shoulder. But Maggie's open, smiling countenance, and the great earnestness with which she had spoken, seemed to do its work at last.

“I am sorry, miss,” the nurse said hesitantly. “I did not know who you were. I am not meant to let the child see anyone, you see—but, if you are a cousin, I suppose there can be no harm in it.”

“Of course there is not!” boomed Mr. Wayland. “What could be more natural? The child must learn to speak to his relatives——”

But even Mr. Wayland must have noticed the look of horror which now came over the woman's face, and he stopped, conscious of having offended her.

Maggie smiled kindly at the nurse, and laying a gentle hand upon the child's head, inquired why he could not see anyone.

“It is my master's wish,” replied the woman simply, with a little shrug of her shoulders that Maggie took to mean that the woman could not question an order from so high an authority. “His lordship believes the child is too easily frightened, and while the surgeons are here, doesn't like their work being interrupted. For myself, I think it is unnatural
to keep a child away from people. It will only increase his fear, and then he shall never be able to live happily.”

“Well, Master James must not be frightened of
me
,” said Maggie, stroking the little head, which was all covered with dark waves like his father's. “For I have not even seen his face, but already I love him. And besides, I have come to play with him. You shan't dislike me for that, shall you?”

While Maggie spoke, the child had begun to raise his head, ever so slowly, and now stole a look into the young lady's eyes. The effort nearly overcame him, for he looked away again at once, but another second made him look again, and now he stared at her as if she was an apparition.

“Shall you dislike me for wishing to play with you, James?” she repeated, but the child showed no sign of hearing her. His eyes were huge and dark and limpid, and at first held no expression at all. His features were delicate and so fragile that Maggie realized at once he must resemble his mother, though there was a something about the small mouth and chin that reminded her of her cousin. Maggie kept up her chatter for some minutes, in the hope of seeing some hint of trust appear in his face. At last she was rewarded, for the tiniest smile in the world curled up the corners of his mouth, and he began to lose the look of a ghost The solemnity of that little face tugged at her heart. Save for the tininess of the features and the look of wonder which was now apparent in his eyes, he might have lived upon the earth for half a century instead of half a decade.

“Shall you come and throw a ball with me?” inquired Maggie, stepping back a pace or two. The child made no sign of understanding, and at first Maggie supposed he might be deaf as well as mute. But now the nurse, whose initial uneasiness seemed to have left her, unwrapped his arms from about her neck and lowered him to the ground. He stood a moment hesitating, and a hand reached out to grasp his nurse's skirt. A gentle push from her was needed to make him move forward, and this he performed with a great air of apprehension.

Maggie was at last able to get the little boy to smile, however timorously, and after some urging had coaxed him
into a game with a stick and a pebble. As she played, she questioned the child's nurse.

“How long have the surgeons been coming?” she began, glancing into the child's face to see if he understood them. Master James gave no sign of listening—his attention was all focused upon the game—but when he heard the word “surgeon,” his back stiffened a little, and though he did not look up, his face was set.

“Ah, miss, ever so long. The child learned to talk when he was hardly more than an infant, so we know it could not be that he was really mute. But the day his poor mama died he closed his lips and has not made a sound since—not even a whimper. He did not cry nor laugh like other children, and his lordship, who will never leave off blaming himself, began to search the whole of England for a physician who would cure him. There have been a dozen surgeons here these past few months alone—for Lord Ramblay has not resigned himself to the fact, but seems every day more tormented. He is like a man possessed, sometimes, miss.”

“And has there been any hope held out by these surgeons?”

The nurse shook her head sadly.

“They will have their potions, miss, and their fancy curatives—but each one goes away more puzzled than the last, and I believe little James, rather than getting stronger, has slipped farther into his silence. Last evening, miss——”

“Yes, yes, I know!” Maggie cut her off, fearing to frighten the little boy any further by invoking the memory of his most recent experience with a doctor, which seemed to have been so painful. “I know my cousin was greatly annoyed with the man——”

“Annoyed!” gasped the nurse, her eyes widening. “Why, I thought surely he would murder him, when he saw what the fool had done! I have never witnessed my master in such a fury before, miss, save for that one time——”

But the woman cut herself short as if she had spoken too freely, and pressing her lips together, glanced at the child. Maggie glanced in that direction, too, unsure whether the woman had stopped because of the child or herself. Seeing the little boy's head bent in concentration upon his game, she attempted to encourage the nurse into further speech, but with no success.

Mr. Wayland was by now shifting his weight impatiently, and thinking he was about to start up on one of his lectures, Maggie leaned down to say good-bye to James. The little boy lifted his head and, when she touched his cheek and ran her fingers through his locks, smiled up at her with a glowing, happy look. It was a different child altogether from the one she had seen half an hour before clinging to his nurse's hem, who now stood up and waved good-bye. He was no stouter, to be sure, and there still lingered in his look a sense of having seen more than his years ought to have showed him—and yet he had begun to resemble a child. It was clear to Maggie, as she thanked the nurse and started off again with Mr. Wayland, that half an hour of play had done the little boy great good. The nurse seemed to think the same, but when Maggie inquired if she could not come back for another visit, looked doubtful and hesitated before replying, “Well, miss—I had rather not have my master know I have gone against his orders. But I must not tell a lie——”