The Admiral's Daughter (16 page)

“No, no, it is no such thing,” protested Maggie, but felt more pleased than she would admit. “I am very fond of music, it is true—but my talents are not sufficient to do my fondness the justice it deserves.”

“You ought not to underrate yourself, Cousin. You have a natural ear for what is right, and great dexterity. If you were to apply yourself diligently, no doubt you should make a fine musician.”

This last almost banished Maggie's pleasure at the Viscount's first praise, for it struck so certain a note, a note she could not but admit was true, that she colored. But the conversation went no further, for Miss Montcrieff would have her say. She ardently wished her “dearest Percy” to sing a particular favorite of her own, and her insistence was so great, her pouts so pretty, and her petulance so absolute that there was no denying her. For half an hour the company listened to her every request, and at the end of it, Maggie rose, saying she was too tired to play any more.

Blanche Haversham had not been present since dinner. She had, as Maggie suspected on looking about for her, been sitting with her lover. But as Maggie rose from the pianoforte, she saw the other young lady walk quietly into the room and take a seat in a far corner.

“That was lovely,” said she, on Maggie's taking a seat beside her. “I have heard only a little, but what a relief it is to hear something other than Diana's hammering!”

Maggie smiled.

“And how is poor Mr. Montcrieff?”

Miss Haversham made a gesture with her shoulders that might have been a shrug. “He is bored, and tired of being abed. But I think his pain has lessened. He has been very eager to make me think well of him.”

“I dare say,” replied Maggie, smiling. “I should be so, too, had you berated me as you did him!”

“I should not have embarrassed him so in front of the others. But I cannot bear to see a dumb beast killed through the stupidity of a man. It seems such a profligate kind of act, when only a little thought might have prevented it.”

Miss Haversham spoke with great intensity, but without any of that contempt which had been in her eyes when she had stood at the bottom of the ravine, lecturing her fiancé.
Then
there had been a kind of wildness in her look, which had astonished Maggie and even frightened her a little. But now the wildness, if it was part of her friend's true nature, had been tamed again. She was once more a composed young woman, concern for her lover showing in her eyes, but only to a degree acceptable in a drawing room.

“Oh, you need not apologize to
me
,” Maggie assured her. “I often think I am fonder of animals than human beings. They are more honest by far, and uninhibited by pride, or vanity, or an excess of ambition.”

Miss Haversham smiled her agreement, and then Maggie asked a question that had been perplexing her.

“How is it you learned to ride so well, Miss Haversham? My cousin told me, and I saw with my own eyes, that you handle the reins better than any of the gentlemen. And yet you could not have been much used to hunting in—in——”

“In Carbury?” smiled Miss Haversham. “No, you are quite right. I never was upon a horse before I was taken up by Brummel. But I soon discovered the sport, and now find it gives me more real satisfaction than anything. When I am galloping full tilt after a pack of hounds, with the wind in my face and mud flying into my eyes, it is impossible to think of anything else. Besides, riding well
requires only two things: The first is to understand that horses, however beautiful, are immensely stupid and will obey anyone who understands that fact; the second requirement is an absolute indifference to one's own safety. I have not had much reason to value my own life during these five years. . . .”

Maggie glanced sharply at her new friend. She would like to have asked a dozen questions at that moment, but something in the other's expression made her stop. She contented herself by saying softly. “I hope you have not forgotten that you asked for my help, Miss Haversham. Please believe that I am as eager as possible to do anything in my power that may be of service to you.”

Blanche Haversham smiled.

“Thank you, my dear friend,” she said simply. “I shall tell you very soon what it is, and then you must be absolutely frank with
me
—for I could not ask of you what is difficult.”

Maggie replied that if it was within her power, she could not think of anything she would
not
do to help so brave a woman, and so steadfast a one. With this seal of their friendship, they agreed to call each other by their Christian names, for while Blanche Haversham was not her
real
name, it would have to do for the present. They were shortly interrupted by Mr. Whitting, who, coming over to where they sat, drew up a chair and wished to be told all the details of Mr. Montcrieff's fall that morning.

Eleven

MAGGIE, LYING IN
the splendor of her silk and silver bed that night, had much to occupy her thoughts. As often happens, she had found her first impressions of Ramblay Castle and its occupants misleading. Although some forebodings of the coldness she might be received with as she had driven toward it, had been confirmed in the person of Lady Ramblay, everywhere else she had found herself welcomed with kindness. Miss Ramblay was as sweet and soft as a rose, and the unexpected disclosures of Miss Haversham, who had at first seemed so distant, so proud, and so haughty, made her feel she had acquired two good friends in a single day. Even Lord Ramblay had seemed to make some offers of friendliness, and while his manner was such that she supposed she would never feel completely at ease in his company (for the gentleman himself never seemed at ease), he had not been anything like the cold, proud man she had expected. He had certainly made an effort to be kind; if his kindness was too stiff, and marred by a perpetual consciousness of his position to be a proper conduit of affection, his efforts had been noticed and were appreciated. At first she had doubted his tale, the reason he had given for having been at Dartmoor, but she began now to understand that such a man might sometimes stumble blindly on, in such haste to reach his objective that he did not notice anyone around him. Since having felt the prick of his mother's temper, she began also to see how such a nature might have been formed. The greater mystery by far was how Miss Ramblay had escaped so well. Maggie did not approve much the manner in which she had been raised, and considered it did her little good to be so protected from the world that any contact with it was in danger of breaking her frail spirit. The forthcoming entrance into Society would no doubt prove whether her
estimation was justified, and Maggie hoped that her own presence might help to ease the way a little.

But the chief of Maggie's thoughts centered about Miss Haversham and the extraordinary tale she had related. So far was it removed from the practical world in which Maggie herself had been raised, that for a while she had almost been tempted to think it was made up. But there was no doubting Blanche Haversham. Hers was a candor seldom seen among her sex, and her courage was so great that the tale of how it had been tested had really torn at Maggie's heart. That so great a creature should have been abused by a selfish, weak, and dissolute brother! That her sacrifices for his sake had been taken without any thanks, but only accepted as his due, while
he
did nothing but shame her in return! She wondered if she would meet the man, and then, remembering her friend's remark about how her brother made use of her position to advance his own, supposed they might meet in London. How she would dearly love to berate him herself, for the villainous character he had shown!

The tale of Brummel's jest amazed Maggie as much as it shocked her. She would have been amused as well, no doubt, had it not affected her friend's whole life. But the tale only strengthened Maggie's mounting suspicion that the whole existence of these people—this privileged little group of men and women—was utterly jaded. Accustomed to having every whim satisfied, having never to struggle against the real perils and dangers of the world, their lives centered inexorably about the business of entertaining themselves. If, in order to fill up their empty days and nights, they sometimes encroached upon the happiness of others, they hardly noticed. It seemed they cared not what lengths they went to for amusement. No—a sillier, vainer, or more selfish group, nor one so given, however unwittingly, to unconscious cruelty, she had never seen. She had once hoped to find among them attainments of intellect and culture greater than her own, minds more discerning and educated; now she could only wonder at her innocence. To have thought that
here
she could share her love of books and music, could discuss at long and pleasurable length the poems of Tennyson and Milton, could learn simply from a proximity of subtler tastes and more educated minds!

If Maggie was as grateful to Miss Haversham for her elucidation of the lives of the nobility as for her offer of friendship, she was the more perplexed by the lady's tale. There were still a dozen points she wished clarified and, had she not felt herself selected by some random and improbable chance—an acute loneliness, perhaps, coming to the peak just at that moment—to have heard the tale told at all, she would have voiced them. But as it was, she felt she must remain silent until Miss Haversham herself chose to tell her more. What, for instance, could have been the reason for her cousin's knowing of the secret when the mystery had been kept so carefully for three years? The question aroused in Maggie a whole series of speculations about that gentleman, which had been only hinted at by Captain Morrison's tale. Remembering Miss Haversham's words that morning at breakfast—“He strikes me as a man with a great secret,” her imagination began to work upon the subject. With only the slenderest evidence to go upon—the strange mix-up in Dartmoor, his awkward excuse for it, the occasional strained expression which came over him from time to time, a worried look, a furrowed brow, an air almost of private agony, carefully suppressed—her imagination did its work. The vast and echoing castle, silent now, contributed to her mental wanderings and made them the more ominous. It was not until the early hours of the morning that Maggie fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

If she had hoped to hear more of Miss Haversham's tale the next day, Maggie was destined to be frustrated. On Sunday there was no hunting, but church and preparations for chapel took up all the morning. A violent rain storm made going on foot impossible, and a quarrel immediately rose up among the ladies on the point of who should ride in which carriage. Their own traveling chaises were unfit for so short a journey, but the notion of being thrust up into a brougham in muddy weather pleased no one. At last they were arranged as much according to their tastes as possible, some having determined at the last moment to stay at home instead of risking their slippers. Maggie, who cared not where she rode, but hoped to remain as close as possible to Miss Haversham, was disappointed to learn that
the latter would not go at all, for Mr. Montcrieff would not hear of her leaving his side.

The retiring Vicar, Mr. Congreve, delivered an exceptionally long and tedious sermon in token of his leaving, which everyone ignored in favor of talking among themselves. Mr. Congreve was not much better than his replacement. If he was older and less enraptured with his own voice than Mr. Wayland, he was very little wiser, and a great deal more corpulent. His whole manner spoke of that complacent belief in his own worth which is the first hint that a person has no worth at all. He droned along for forty minutes with about as much interest in the ideas he espoused as Lord Ramblay's guests, who all were more fascinated by their own remarks than his.

A luncheon was laid out when they returned, and Mr. Montcrieff, so much improved that he had left his bed, walked in to greet them, leaning upon Miss Haversham's arm. His happy expression declared that his sins had been forgiven and Miss Haversham's good favor restored. In
her
eyes was a softness Maggie had never seen before. Mr. Montcrieff would not let his beloved leave his side for a moment, and only an occasional, apologetic glance from her friend told Maggie that she was sorry they could not continue their
tête-à-tête.

Cards were the order of the afternoon. Maggie, declining to make a hand at whist, retreated to a sofa with a novel, where she was soon discovered by Lord Ramblay, who had likewise no taste for games that day.

“My mother tells me we are to have the advantage of an acquaintance of yours to do our honors at church from next Sunday,” he began, drawing up a chair.

Putting down her book, Maggie inquired if he had not met Mr. Wayland himself?

“No, and from what I have heard, it is my own loss that I have not. I have been away much of late on business, and my mother had all the obligation upon her shoulders of engaging the new Vicar. And yet I hear he is a great friend of yours—I believe we have been most fortunate in finding him.”

The compliment was not lost upon Maggie, and she flushed. The blush was not all from pleasure, however; she dearly wished to clear herself of any connection with the Vicar in her cousin's eyes. Why the desire was so great,
she could not tell, but the thought of
his
contempt when he met the clergyman, supposing them to be great intimates, made her flesh tingle with chagrin.

“I beg you to reserve your judgment of the gentleman till you have met him yourself,” she said. “He is not a great intimate of mine, although I know him well enough. Indeed, I only narrowly escaped a
most
intimate connection with him some weeks since.”