The Admiral's Daughter (12 page)

The return of the invalid with his host and the two young ladies excited a great interest in the party at the castle. The ladies were all gathered in the morning room, and Maggie was astonished to see that those who had ridden out for the start of the hunt had changed their elaborate riding costumes for equally studied morning frocks. If they had hoped to impress each other with their ringlets and ribbons, they seemed none of them to have succeeded, and from the numbers of yawns Maggie saw smothered behind beringed hands, they did not find much amusement in each other's company. Her own entrance—she had come in on purpose to find Miss Montcrieff—made them raise their heads and wonder what had brought her back so soon. An explanation followed, which brought a communal gasp.

“What!” cried Diana Montcrieff, jumping up from the sofa where she had been playing with a tiny dog. “Is my brother injured? Oh, take me to him at once! I cannot bear to think of it!”

Maggie's assurances that, though suffering from an injured ankle, Mr. Montcrieff had escaped any great harm, were received almost with disappointment by the other ladies.

“Oh, it is only an
ankle
,” said one, and another wished to know what all the commotion was about, for nothing greater. But Miss Montcrieff, looking as if she would faint dead away, clung to Maggie's sleeve.

“I hope there is no wound!” she wailed. “For I cannot bear the sight of blood. Indeed, if there is any, I had better not go, for I shall surely be quite miserable.”

“There is no blood, and indeed the wound is not very great. I only came to tell you, for I thought you would
certainly wish to see with your own eyes how well he is, under the circumstances.”

“I suppose Blanche Haversham is with him?” inquired Miss Montcrieff as they walked along the hall toward the apartment where the invalid had been taken. Maggie did not know how much she should tell the young lady of what had transpired between Miss Haversham and her inamorato, but concluding that Miss Montcrieff had better be kept as calm as possible, said only:

“I suppose she is. She returned with us.”

In fact, Maggie had no certainty on this point whatever. Miss Haversham had indeed accompanied them back to the castle, but her obstinate silence, and her refusal to ride next to her fiancé, suggested that she wished to have as little as possible to do with him. However, on coming into the sickroom, Maggie was surprised and greatly relieved to see the beautiful young woman, still in her muddied riding habit, bending over the divan on which Montcrieff was lying. Though her expression had not softened much, and though she said not a word, she was administering a poultice to his brow with gentle hands. Mr. Montcrieff, meanwhile, who seemed to suffer more from his lover's criticism than from his fall, was gazing at her with woeful eyes.

“Poor Freddy!” cried his sister when she saw him, rushing up to the divan and falling down upon her knees beside him. “Are you most awfully hurt?”

Miss Haversham said nothing, but smiled to herself as she turned away, giving up the poultice which Miss Montcrieff had seized from her and was now applying to her brother's brow with less than expertise.

Maggie, seeing that the siblings were engrossed in each other—the one with wailing about his awful pain, and the other with making crooning noises in return—turned away to leave the room. She meant to see if a surgeon had been called for, but was detained by Blanche Haversham's voice behind her.

“Wait a moment, Miss Trevor, if you will,” she said, hurrying down the hall behind her. “I should like a word with you, if I may.”

Surprised, Maggie halted in her path long enough to allow her friend to catch up.

“You are not going to join the other ladies, are you?”
demanded Miss Haversham, with a doubtful look.

“No—only to see if a surgeon has been called.”

“Oh, well—Percy has already done that. I believe he went himself to fetch one. I did hope—that is, I hoped we might speak privately for a moment.”

Maggie replied that she most certainly did not mind, and followed the other down a corridor and into a tiny sitting room. The walls were lined with books, there was a fire in the grate, and the furnishings, composed of several worn leather armchairs and unmatched incidental tables, gave the place a comfortable and homelike air. Miss Haversham did not sit down at once, but walked toward the shelves, all loaded down with books, and stared up at them for a while without speaking. The books, as Maggie noted with some surprise, were not merely handsomely bound editions, purchased for their look and never read, but rather a motley array of every kind of volume, from history to fiction, with a well-thumbed collection of scientific journals and what seemed like several hundred French and Italian plays and novels.

“I suppose you have read a great many of these?” demanded Miss Haversham at last.

Maggie could only laugh. “Heavens, no! Not above a fraction of them, if even that. Though I
have
some acquaintance with Moliere and Chaucer, have read most of Shakespeare's plays, and one or two histories—but goodness, I doubt I could have done much besides, if I had read all this!”

“Your cousin has, you know,” returned Miss Haversham. “I asked him once, and he admitted he had read every one. I believe this is his favorite room, for I discovered him here once by chance. I doubt not he comes here to escape his overbearing mama and have a little quiet.”

Now Maggie looked about the place with a keener interest, for the room had so different an air than any other part of the castle she had seen, and it had struck her at once as twice as welcoming as all the gilt and gew-gaws, grand as they were, to be seen about the other apartments. That it should appeal to her cousin, the very incarnation of everything formal and elegant, was startling. And yet it made her think that perhaps he was more human than he seemed. Perhaps he, too, needed to let down his guard from time to time.

“Why,” she inquired with a smile, “does my cousin really hold Lady Ramblay in so much awe as Mr. Whiting claims?”

Miss Haversham only snorted in reply.

“Awe! No, nothing like it. I do not believe Percy holds anyone in awe. But he does more than
I
could do, if I had such a mother: He seems to listen to everything she says, refrains from contradicting even her most idiotic remarks, and actually defends her, if she is attacked.”

“And is she attacked very often?”

Now Miss Haversham turned to face her friend and smiled. “Everyone is attacked, you know, in Society.”

The last word had been uttered with so peculiar an inflection that Maggie could not help smiling back. Miss Haversham did not appear the kind of lady who would put so much emphasis on the term. But her pronunciation of it had made it sound more like a kingdom or a very lofty state than the mere grouping of a set of people.

“Society?” repeated Maggie, still smiling. “You make it sound a very awesome thing.”

“Oh! And it is! There is nothing more awesome—or more awful, if you like. It makes and breaks reputations for a whim, and has been sometimes known to kill strong men.” At Maggie's look of surprise, she continued: “Oh, to be sure, it is an awesome thing. Only try living outside its rules, if you are one of those poor unfortunates who depends upon it for happiness.
Then
you shall see what importance the raising of an eyebrow can have!”

“Well then—I suppose you are not one of those poor unfortunates, Miss Haversham, for I have not seen you tremble overmuch at shocking your friends!”

“Oh, la! You are an innocent, ain't you?” exclaimed the other, pushing back a lock of raven-colored hair from her brow. “I abide by their rules more than they do themselves!”

At Maggie's expression of amazement, Miss Haversham only smiled and, turning around, walked to the window, where she stood for some moments without speaking. When she did, it was to ask an unexpected question.

“Do you think I was unjust to poor Freddy?” she said quietly.

“Unjust? No, I think every justice was on your side. Indeed, I was amazed—and vastly pleased—to hear what
you said. Perhaps you were a little overstern, most especially as it was before his friends—but unjust, never!”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Miss Haversham, without turning about, “for I had really feared I might lose you as my friend.”

Such an admission, spoken in so quiet a voice, and coming from so unexpected a quarter—from a young lady, in fact, who seemed impervious to any such human needs—could not but flatter Maggie.

“I felt as soon as I saw you,” Miss Haversham went on, “that you were different from the others. It was not merely your clothes—forgive me if I speak bluntly—but the way you held your head, and the sensible look in your eyes. I saw at once that we were creatures of the same sort.”

“That is very kind of you,” interjected Maggie, feeling herself flush, “and I wish it were really true! But while I am admittedly very blunt myself—and some would say, perhaps all
too
sensible—I have, compared to you, led a very plain life. My father is an admiral, you know, and before he was an admiral, he was a captain, and when he married my mother, he was a penniless ensign. I have lived all my life at Portsmouth, amid a hurly-burly crowd of sailors and their ladies. Any refinements I may have gleaned in the two and twenty years I have lived upon the earth have been culled accidentally from books and from the kindness of my father, who has ever made it his purpose in life to try to make me a lady. I have no pretention to seeming other than what I am.”

Now Miss Haversham turned about, and with an extraordinary expression in her beautiful dark eyes, said slowly: “Well, then, I was wrong! It seems that in two points at least, we are completely opposed. You have a father, while I have not; and
I have every pretention to seeming what I am not
.”

Nine

MISS HAVERSHAM POSSESSED
, besides beauty of a most un-ordinary kind, the sort of look which is so proud, so forthright, and so dignified, that her whole mien seemed to speak the truth. Her figure was tall and elegant, and stately even in its slenderness. Her shoulders—wider than most women's—were held back in an almost military fashion, and the expression in her remarkable eyes was so candid as to make anyone who looked at them positive that she was incapable of telling a lie. There was a softness about the mouth, too, which many did not notice at first. But those who had had the opportunity of gazing at that face for very long, must have noticed it, and when they did, must have seen there traces of sensibility which did not leap out at first acquaintance with the lady. She was so often silent, and her silence seemed so haughty (though on knowing her better, Maggie decided that the attitude was more one of absolute self-discipline than real haughtiness) that many must have thought her incapable of that sweetness of nature which is a woman's chief attraction. Sweet she most certainly was not. No resemblance did she possess either to a flower or a dainty, unless the flower were one so tall and proud and regal—a calla lily, perhaps—that it grew with as much sober dignity as she, or the dainty so rare and delicate that it could not be gobbled up without a moment's hesitation at wreaking damage on so splendid a creation. And yet there
was
sweetness in her—or rather, softness. It was just this quality that most struck Maggie as she listened, all amazement, to her friend's next words.

Miss Haversham spoke plainly, almost defiantly, but in her attitude there was something almost pleading, and it could not help but touch her friend.

“I asked you a moment ago,” Miss Haversham began, staring fixedly at her companion, “if you had read any of
these books—” gesturing at the shelves. “You replied you had read only a smattering of them—Chaucer, Shakespeare, Moliere—and that your knowledge was acquired almost by hazard.
My
knowledge of the world has been acquired in the same fashion—though not, as you have done, with the help of a devoted father, or in the luxury of a happy home. All
my
knowledge has been forced upon me, as a fish must learn to swim and to forage for food among the tiny growing things in the ocean—in order to live. I am not, you see, at all what I seem to be.”

Miss Haversham paused for a moment, seeming to search Maggie's eyes for an indication of her thoughts, but seeing there only encouragement and concern, she turned away and moved to a window, where she stood for some moments looking out in silence. At last a low laugh issued from her lips.

“It is not a bad joke,” she said, as if to herself. And then, seeming to remember she was not alone, made a gesture of her hand in the air.

“This is not my world, although I have learned its rules so well that I am among the few allowed to disobey them. In fact, it is just that which let me enter it: The
haute ton
is in truth a very dull place to live. Any surprising or novel person—so long as she does not absolutely violate the first decree of it leaders—is instantly welcomed in for the sake of diversion. I was just such a one, although not by intent. At first I did not understand them, and was not much interested in what they thought of me. That was my first great stroke. To people who have been obsessed for so long with their own importance, it was an awakening to discover one who was not. And then I learned that, the more cold I was, the less attention I paid them, the greater value was put on any attention I
did
pay. But I have gone ahead of myself. I meant to tell you how I came to inhabit this elevated world into which I was neither born nor brought up.”