The Admiral's Daughter (32 page)

“James was born at last—and with what joy I beheld him, I cannot tell you! Here was a new reason for my existence, a new hope for my old age; whatever had been lost of hope in the married state, was five-fold made up for by one glance at his face. Anna felt no such ecstatic trembling. She accepted the child, but only as her fate, as her personal albatross. She was not a bad mother—her natural instincts were too well placed. And yet she took no delight in dandling him upon her knee, none of that happiness in seeing his first smile, his first gesture, that mothers generally have. And as soon as he was capable of being left alone for an hour, she was impatient to be back in London.

“I do not mean to paint for you the picture of a hardened woman, a cruel or a heartless one. Anna was still the loveliest lady in England. Her sweetness, her gaiety had not left her—her manner was as artless as a young girl's. But it was just this quality that made her selfish—I cannot call it less. She was used all her life to getting her own way. No toy was ever denied her as a child, nor any amusement when she grew older. She expected just this same kind of laxity in later life. Any little hardship or difficulty would make her weep with unhappiness and incomprehension. She really did not believe the world had the right to deny her anything. I canot tell you how often that look of wide-eyed incredulity won me over!
I
had not the heart to make her miserable, and so, like her father, I gave in to her every whim. Would
now
that I had not!

“Anna returned to London, with the child. We set up once more in our town house, and once more the stream of visitors commenced. I had by now given up the idea of making her understand any other way of life. I was only grateful when she vouchsafed the child and me an hour together of her company. For the rest, I made it my business to see James well cared for, and absented myself as much as possible from the house. It was during this time that an officer by the name of Morrison began to be a more and more frequent visitor. I did not notice at first—there were so many faces, so many uniforms, and I had given up trying to recognize them all. In truth, it was not
until too late that I saw anything improper in this growing alliance.”

Lord Ramblay was silent for a moment, staring at the ground. Incapable of making him continue this painful history, Maggie touched his shoulder with her gloved hand.

“Oh dear!” she breathed, “poor man! And so they planned to go away together?”

“No impropriety was ever committed,” he said sharply, glancing up. “I found them before they reached Gretna Green. From there they had determined to go to the Continent, under false names, and live forever upon Anna's legacy. I am convinced the whole plot was worked out by Morrison, and only conceded to by Anna out of weakness. She had no more notion of evil than a child has—but neither had she any notion of strength. She was instantly penitent, and begged to be forgiven. She wept like a baby, and claimed that she could never have left me and our child. However, all my old faith was gone. I could never again look at her with complete trust.

“My father, alas, had learned of the scheme, and of its outcome. He was outraged. Where I had been too weak to deter Anna from anything, he was not. He ordered her to the country, closed up our house in London, and commanded her to live as quietly as a nun. Anna took her punishment with surprising docility. It was as if she had accepted the end of her life. From that day forward, she was a different woman—more compliant, and absolutely inscrutable. She did everything she was meant to do, but all the joy had gone out of her. She took to working needlepoint, and finished a whole tapestry before her death. I am convinced her body was commanded by her mind to die, for she had not interest left in anything.”

Lord Ramblay's last words hung in the air between them for a moment, with only the sound of the wind and the distant tinkle of a cow bell to disturb the absolute silence. Maggie spoke at last, as gently as she could.

“And what of Captain Morrison? I suppose he is Blanche Haversham's brother?”

The Viscount nodded.

“For her sake, as much as for my wife's, the matter was kept quiet. Morrison was bought back into the service—for he had deserted his command to elope with my wife—and no hint was ever made of the subject again. I wish now
I had had more courage to defy him openly, despite the cost in dignity, for it might have prevented a second attempt to use the innocence of others to his own profit.”

Now Maggie looked really frightened. Her lips began to form a question, which her cousin, seeing, instantly understood.

“Have no fear. Your letter was just in time to prevent that second attempt. When Miss Haversham read it, she saw at once the link between Morrison and the Italian count my sister had fallen in love with. To be frank, she had already some suspicion that her brother was devising another scheme for his advantage, for when she told him she intended marrying young Montcrieff and that their mutual secret was soon to be dashed, he was not so angry as she had expected. He hinted, in fact, that he was soon to be out of England and that his fortunes would no longer depend upon
her
whims and fancies. She saw him by accident talking to the Italian, whom she already had some aquaintance with, and heard my sister had been seen riding with him in the park a few days before. As soon as we guessed their plan, we drove over to Grosvenor Square in time to prevent the elopement—for in fact it was already planned, and Fanny was so besotted with that foreign snake that she was perfectly willing to do anything he asked.”

“Oh Lord!” cried Maggie, in real anguish, “and to think
I
was the cause of it!”

Lord Ramblay looked at her and smiled, saying gently, “No, that is not true; you were only the victim of a cunning mind, and not nearly so clever as you thought you were.”

“For
that
I shall be truly sorry all my days.”

“No, no—you may be sorry now, if you like, but only enough to understand the lesson you have had, and to realize that the world is neither so complicated, nor so simple, as you think. If you learn this one lesson well, you will be the best woman upon earth—for there is not another lady in England with your strength, your courage, or your honesty. After all, had not you the courage to admit your mistake? That is a kind of heroism seldom seen among either males or females, and do not think
I
hold it light!”

Maggie had been staring very hard at the ground, condemning herself in no uncertain terms for the stupidity, the foolishness, and very nearly, the cruelty, she had been
capable of, in thinking one man evil, and the other faultless, when in truth they were almost exactly the opposite. She raised her eyes now in a humble and beseeching look to her cousin's steady gaze.

“I wonder you have the heart to forgive me so easily,” she murmured.

“Oh! I have the heart for much more than that!” responded the Viscount. “And now, if you will let me prove it to you, I should like to kiss that impudent mouth of yours, which in truth has been tormenting my sleep these past three weeks.”

There was very little resistance offered to this idea, and it was not for some moments that Maggie's lips, impudent or otherwise, were freed for any other occupation. At length, however, having grown almost immune to the racing of her heart and the burning of her cheeks, she was able to get a little of that old irritating light back into her eyes, and to say, with something of her old mockery,

“If I am to be a different kind of woman altogether—that is, more sensible and clear-thinking, less given to impudence and nonsense—do you think I may require one change from your lordship?”

Lord Ramblay looked at his cousin in some confusion. “Why, what is that?”

“Nothing more than an occasional attack of mirth at yourself, my lord,” she murmured, with a lowering of her eyes.

Lord Ramblay seemed a little taken aback by this, but in a moment he grinned.

“Done, your ladyship. I shall agree to a regular attack of laughing at
my
stupidity, if you shall agree to——”

“To what?”

But Lord Ramblay had no need to elaborate any further. His eyes spoke eloquently to that question, answered as silently as it was asked, with a long, a deep, and a heartfelt look.

It was not for some time that those two figures, which had shortly before walked away from the castle, returned and, stopping behind a hedgerow for a last stolen kiss, slipped quietly into the mansion.

Twenty-three

“BY JOVE!” GROWLED
Admiral Trevor, staring down into the hedgerows from his position at the library window. “By Jove! Has not the fellow any idea of when to have done?”

“I beg your pardon?” stammered Lord Ramblay.

The Viscount had been pacing back and forth before his desk while he made his speech. He had felt some nervousness, it is true, upon requesting the Admiral's permission to marry his daughter. Some hesitancy he had expected, though the older man had
seemed
complacent enough upon emerging from his conference with his daughter earlier that day. But so emphatic a denouncement of his plea, he had not forseen. Now, seeing the fierce look in the Admiral's eyes, he moved closer the window himself, and peered downward.

“Have you ever seen such a knave in all your life?” demanded Admiral Trevor, without glancing up.

“Oh!” Lord Ramblay looked relieved. “I take it you are speaking of Mr. Wayland, sir.”

“None other, my dear fellow—look at the idiot now, waving his arms about for all the world as though he would like to be a windmill! And look at that pompous face! Have you seen anything to top it?”

Lord Ramblay grinned. “Seldom, in fact. I wonder what he is saying to her?”

Even Mr. Wayland might have astounded his audience, had they known that he was once again in the midst of proposing to Miss Trevor. The idea had been eating away at him ever since that pleasurable walk they had had together in the park on the first day of his arrival at Ramblay. He had hemmed and hawed for some little while, uncertain if he really wished to encumber himself with as troublesome a wife as the Admiral's daughter would no doubt make. But at last vanity and ambition had won out
over good sense, and he had managed to secure a moment alone with her. This was no mean feat, to be sure: Miss Trevor was much in demand by her cousins of late, and there had been a great to-do in the castle, what with visitors coming and going and the arrival of the Admiral himself. But at last he had seized his chance, upon glimpsing the young lady walking alone in the hedgerows with a most docile and dreamy expression upon her face. This expression had persuaded him that her thoughts were not far removed from his own, and when she started a little upon hearing his voice, and then smiled up at him very sweetly, he was convinced of the fact.

“My dear Miss Trevor,” he had commenced, falling into step beside her, “I hope I am not disturbing some very
deep
reflection of your own.” This was accompanied by a significant look. “Love is a wonderful thing, is it not?”

“A most wonderful thing,” agreed Maggie softly, but a little astonished to find how clearly Mr. Wayland had read her mind.

“Surely the closest thing to Heaven we are granted here upon earth,” continued the Vicar, with a comprehending look.

Maggie made no reply, for none seemed needed. She saw that the clergyman was about to embark on one of his rhapsodic speeches, which in truth required no encouragement from any outside source. She continued to walk along, gazing before her with a starry-eyed look, which Mr. Wayland promptly interpreted as a maidenly attention to his words.

“It is the manna of our existence, the very honey of our lives. Without love, what are we but savages, uncivilized and sordid creatures, incapable of any fine feeling? Love, indeed, strikes me as the very oil of life. When our hearts are lifted up by such a kind of sentiment, our minds are clearer, our thoughts purer, we are driven to do good, as surely as the murderer is driven to do evil. All foulness and baseness is vanished from us, we are purged and cleansed, as white as lilies of the field, as clean as snow.”

Here Mr. Wayland, who had been inspired by seeing some white particles beginning to descend from Heaven, attempted to seize one in his fingers with the idea of laying it in Maggie's hair. His attempt was futile, but he persisted
in catching at snowflakes for a while, waxing eloquent as he did so.

He was amazed, after a little, to see that Miss Trevor had not made a sound. She still gazed straight before her with that same starry-eyed expression, which was beginning to strike the clergyman as unnatural and making him wonder if she were not ill. To be sure it was unlike her not to make even
one
impudent retort! Peering at her, he broke off his soliloquy to murmur, “Are you absolutely well, Miss Trevor? You look a little ill, I think.”

But he was quickly assured that she had never been better, and with such a delightful radiant smile, that it seemed to him this was all the encouragement he could ever wish for. Plunging in, therefore, he commenced to steer his own speech in the direction of matrimony, as the highest expression of that love he had already lauded to the Heavens. He was in the midst of this lecture, which in truth had some very pretty metaphors in it, though not of his own invention, when he was startled by a gurgle from behind him.