The Admiral's Daughter (15 page)

Now Lady Ramblay focused her quizzing glass on Maggie. “You helped him, did you? I suppose you held the poultice on his brow?”

Maggie could not help smiling to herself.

“No, madam—nothing like that. I only helped to wrap the bandage around his ankle, and to cleanse the wound.”

“Wrap the bandage! My dear child, I hope you did not indeed! Why, what if the wound should fester, or his leg become infected?”

“She did it very well, madam,” put in Lord Ramblay, in an effort to stop what looked like an interrogation. But his mother ignored him.

“And where did you learn doctoring, Miss Trevor?”

“I learned what little I know, your ladyship, nearly on my father's knee. It is often the commander of a vessel who must double as ship's surgeon, and when I grew older, I used often to nurse his sailors myself, when they were in port.”

“Ah!” muttered Lady Ramblay, but with no evidence of being satisfied. “Sailors are a very dirty lot, do not you think? I wonder you did not contract some rare disease, such as they are always dying of in the tropics.”

Maggie smiled more broadly still, but seeing Blanche Haversham smiling encouragement from across the table, endeavored to keep her voice level. “They are no dirtier than other men, madam. Indeed, less so, for they have the constant proximity of water and wind, which are the best natural cleansing forces in the world. They are in general a very healthy group of men. I do not suppose there are any Englishman much better off.”

Lady Ramblay seemed to snort, and subsided for a
while. Maggie noticed that Miss Ramblay, who had been sitting quietly near her mama, was deeply flushed. Once more Maggie's heart went out to the young girl. She would draw her out as soon as she could, for a sweeter, prettier, more shy-looking creature she had never seen in her life.

The opportunity came sooner than expected and was initiated by Miss Ramblay herself. Coming up to Maggie as soon as they had quit the dining room, she laid a small flower-like hand upon the other's arm and smiled shyly.

“I have wished most awfully to speak to you since last night,” she said. “But I have been all day studying with my tutors. Mama says if I am to go to Town with you, I must apply myself diligently beforehand. But ever since I heard of you, I have been so eager to meet you! And now I see I was not mistaken in my hopes.”

More flattered by this artless show of friendship than she would have been by any compliment from the worldly women in the party, Maggie replied warmly that she, too, had been longing to speak to her young cousin. The two walked together into the withdrawing room, where coffee was already being served, and, as if from instinct, Miss Ramblay left her hand in her cousin's. They sat down upon a sofa together, and the younger girl began to quiz her cousin about her life at Portsmouth and about her father, her eyes shining all the while with interest. At last, when there was a pause in the questions, she burst out:

“Why! It does not sound nearly so bad as I thought!” Maggie inferred from this that Miss Ramblay had been made to believe that the Admiral and his daughter were some sort of gypsies, as unlike the people her cousin had been brought up with as fish. She smiled to herself, and said, “No, no—I suppose it does not.”

“I am most awfully glad we are to make our come-out together,” confided Miss Ramblay.

Maggie was astonished at this, for she had guessed her cousin's age to be not above fifteen or sixteen. Her look and manner, her tiny, frail figure, and most especially the excessive naiveté of her manner, confirmed this idea. And yet, inquiring her age, Maggie discovered her cousin to be eighteen. That eighteen years had passed before those eyes was nearly unbelievable. They must have been so shaded from life, or at the least from real life, as it was lived by nearly all the world, that they had managed to
retain that shining, naked innocence which was at once extraordinarily appealing and a little frightening. The notion of those eyes now being exposed to the rude, rough world made Maggie almost flinch. And yet there was a something about the mouth, on further knowing the young lady, which spoke of an innate wisdom—almost a worldliness—completely contrasting to the rest, and which reminded Maggie of some reproductions she had seen of medieval paintings. It was an understanding as timeless and patient as the earth itself. Maggie began to understand now why the child was treated with such protectiveness. That combination of innocence and experience would have pierced any man's heart.

Lady Ramblay billowed up to them like a stately battleship under full sail. She must once have been a handsome woman, Maggie thought, but the regular lines of her face and form had been taxed by an evil disposition and an excess of flesh. Whatever charms had once lurked about that chin and in those eyes, was now hidden beneath a dozen pink folds, and what might have been a jolly old age was marred by a strident manner.

“Well, child!” the Viscountess cried, “I see you are getting acquainted with your cousin! I hope she has not put any peculiar notions in your head about life.”

“No, no, Mama!” exclaimed Fanny in protest. “Miss Trevor has only been telling me about her father and the Navy. It is a most fascinating tale!”

“I would imagine so, my dear,” replied the Viscountess, pressing her lips together and glaring at Maggie, “but not one, I think, meant for the ears of innocent girls.”

Maggie could not help protesting at this that she, too, had once been an innocent girl, and that the living out of her life had not done her much harm. Lady Ramblay merely snorted, and then said, in what appeared to be an effort at condescension:

“I believe we are soon to have a neighbor of yours in the vicarage, Miss Trevor. No doubt you will be glad of a companion from your own
milieu
.”

“Oh, if it is Mr. Wayland you are speaking of, madam, I have indeed heard of his coming to you. We are not very intimate friends, but I shall certainly be glad to see him.”

“You knew of his coming!” cried the other. “Why, it
was understood between us that his appointment should be secret!”

Maggie smiled in recollection of the Vicar's eagerness to impart to her this delicate matter.

“I do not think there is much that can be kept secret in a small village.”

“No, no—I suppose not. Gossip among the lower orders is nearly as prevalent a vice as poverty. It has long been my opinion that the elimination of both would greatly improve this kingdom.”

Maggie was unable to contradict her hostess on this point, for while her acquaintance with what she seemed meant to take as the “higher orders” had done little to convince her that gossip was not prevalent among
them
, she could hardly dispute the fact that poverty was not a greatly desirable state. That it should be called a vice, however, had never occurred to her before. The idea made her smile to herself.

Lady Ramblay went on, “Be that as it may, you shall have the pleasure of seeing your old friend on Monday, for that is when he takes up his duties. A most attractive gentleman, I think—most diligent in his attention to the Church. Indeed, I do not believe we shall miss our old Mr. Congreve very sadly, for young Wayland has all the promise to
my
mind of gaining a bishopric some day. It will be among my greatest pleasures to push him along as well as I may, for there is nothing so helpful to a young curate—especially one of Mr. Wayland's modest disposition—as an interested patron.”

“It seems Mr. Wayland has done himself a great turn,” thought Maggie at hearing these amazing words of praise spoken of the very gentleman she had long considered among the least religious of any she had met, and likewise the most greedy. “I doubt not but he thought more about the lady of the castle, on applying for the post, than any good he might do among the parishioners.” Smiling to herself, she decided that no two souls of earth deserved each other more. If Mr. Wayland was a pompous idiot, he might yet learn a lesson or two in gracelessness from his new patron. Lord Ramblay, with his stiff, formal manner, had at least escaped his mother's influence on that one point: If he was too awkward to be thought really agreeable, and even if he had been cruel to his wife, he had at least
none of his mother's outright incivility. Rather, his shortcomings seemed to veer in the other direction, for even Miss Haversham's tale had not influenced Maggie's opinion of his manner, but rather confirmed it. Captain Morrison's summation of him as a man of duty beyond everything, came to her mind again a moment later, when the gentlemen came in.

Lady Ramblay went off to oversee their coffee, and Miss Ramblay, who had been gazing miserably into her lap on hearing her mother's extraordinary remarks, now lit up with pleasure when she saw her brother approach them.

“Oh, Percy!” she exclaimed, “I have been having
such
a lovely time with Miss Trevor! She has been telling me all about her life. I think it is better than a novel!”

Lord Ramblay smiled indulgently at his young sister and, turning to Maggie with a formal bow, remarked, “I hope Fanny has not been boring
you
unduly with tales of woe about her studies.”

“Oh! Nothing like it! Your sister has made me speak only of myself this last half hour. But I understand we are to be together at London, so I shall have ample opportunity to hear about
her
.”

“Oh, there is very little to tell,” said Miss Ramblay diffidently. “I have not done anything nearly as exciting as you have. My life is perfectly dull in comparison.”

“Nonsense, Fanny! You have led a life exactly suited to a young girl of your situation.”

There, again, were those words—the same idea, only slightly altered in the expression. Lord Ramblay had not been so uncivil as his mama, and yet there was in his tone the same intimation that Fanny, being what she was, was set apart from the rest of humanity and, in this particular case, from her cousin. It was not an absolute affront, but once more Maggie felt a little like an orphaned relation brought to live with her aristocratic cousins, more for their own satisfaction at doing good than for her own pleasure or health. She received Lord Ramblay's thanks for the part she had played in helping Mr. Montcrieff with rather less grace than she might have done, and a little while later, when a cry went up for music, used as an excuse her love of playing to move away.

Diana Montcrieff was first to play. Hardly an urging was needed to make
her
rise from her chair and go to the instrument,
though a great show was made of reluctance. With many little grimaces and protestations, and saying that she should oblige them if some others would do the same, she was seated upon the stool in an instant. She had insisted she should only play one or two tunes, but once established at the pianoforte, could not be coaxed away for an hour. Her playing was so full of false notes, so lacking in feeling as well as technique, that Maggie could hardly comprehend the clamor that went up upon the completion of every song. But at last the young lady rose up, and having inquired of one or two of the others if they would not play, she turned to Maggie.

“Well, then, Miss Trevor,
you
must oblige us! I am sure you know all kinds of lively songs that sailors sing. Pray, give us one or two of those!”

Saying she would do her best, Maggie took her place at the instrument. Though she did indeed know many a naval hymn and ballad, she took an especial pleasure in playing first a particularly difficult sonata she had mastered more from strength of will than anything. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Lord Ramblay turn away from a group he had been in conversation with and walk a little nearer to the pianoforte. When she had finished the second piece—a livelier tune—he was standing beside her.

“And will you sing with me, Cousin?” she demanded, starting in upon a well-known ballad. She did not expect him to concede; she had really meant to taunt him by the invitation, thinking Lord Ramblay too conscious of his own dignity to risk it upon a song. She was amazed, therefore, when he merely nodded, and commenced.

Lord Ramblay's voice was cause for even more amazement. Though evidently out of practice, it was deep and round and—more astonishing still—made resonant by natural feeling. Whether he had once been trained to sing in this fashion, or had acquired the skill from intuitive understanding, his voice swelled and softened with so much beauty that she nearly ceased playing in order to listen. Indeed, she herself stopped singing after the first verse was done, and on the next, when only the Viscount's voice was heard alone, conversation ceased among the other guests as they drew around to listen.

“By Jove, Ramblay!” cried Mr. Whiting, “I never knew you had such a voice!”

The others joined in the clamor, but Lord Ramblay would not be flattered. It appeared no one had heard him sing before, save Fanny, who coming up beside her cousin inquired softly if her brother did not have a great talent?

“To be sure he does!” exclaimed Maggie with feeling, for the moment forgetting her dislike of him. “I have seldom heard such a voice as that.”

Lord Ramblay flushed at this praise as he had not done at that of the others, and denied that his was anything unusual.

“But, Percy—I did not know you ever sang,” Miss Montcrieff cried out. “Certainly you have never sung for
me.
”

“I have not sung these five years at least, Diana,” he assured her. “Not since—not since——” but the sentence was not finished. Lord Ramblay colored, and changed the subject. “But indeed, it is not
me
you ought to be praising. My cousin's playing is infinitely superior to my accompaniment.”