The Buccaneers (8 page)

“Ah, so they say. But, of course, the rumours one hears about this young man... a son of Lord Brightlingsea's, I understand? But, Miss Testvalley, you were with the Brightlingseas; you must have known him?”

“It's a very big family, and when I went there the sons were already scattered. I usually remained at Allfriars with the younger girls.”

Mrs. Parmore nodded softly. “Quite so. And by that time this unfortunate young man had already begun his career of dissipation in London. He
has
been dissipated, I believe?”

“Lately I think he's been trying to earn his living on Mr. Closson's plantation in Brazil.”

“Poor young man! Do his family realize what a deplorable choice he has made? Whatever his past may have been, it's a pity he should marry in New York, and leave it again, without having any idea of it beyond what can be had in the Closson set. If he'd come in different circumstances, we should all have been so happy.... Mr. Parmore would have put him down at his clubs ... he would have been invited everywhere.... Yes, it does seem unfortunate.... But of course no one knows the Clossons.”

“I suppose the young couple will go back to Brazil after the marriage,” said Miss Testvalley evasively.

Mrs. Parmore gave an ironic smile. “I don't imagine Miss Closson is marrying the son of a marquess to go and live on a plantation in Brazil. When I took Alida to Mrs. Connelly's to order her dress for the Assembly, Mrs. Connelly told me she'd heard from Mrs. Closson's maid that Mr. Closson meant to give the young couple a house in London. Do you suppose this is likely? They can't keep up any sort of establishment in London without a fairly large income; and I hear Mr. Closson's position in Wall Street is rather shaky.”

Miss Testvalley took refuge in one of her Italian gestures of conjecture. “Governesses, you know, Mrs. Parmore, hear so much less gossip than dress-makers and ladies' maids; and I am not Miss Closson's governess.”

“No; fortunately for you! For I believe there were rather unpleasant rumours at Saratoga. People were bound to find a reason for such a hurried marriage.... But your pupils have been asked to be bridesmaids, I understand?”

“The girls got to know each other last summer. And you know how exciting it is, especially for a child of Annabel St. George's age, to figure for the first time in a wedding procession.”

“Yes. I suppose they haven't many chances.... But shouldn't you like to come upstairs and see Alida's Assembly dress? Mrs. Connelly has just sent it home, and your pupils might like to hear about it. White tulle, of course—nothing will ever replace white tulle for a débutante, will it?”

 
 
Miss Testvalley, after that visit, felt that she had cast in her lot once for all with the usurpers and the adventurers. Perhaps because she herself had been born in exile, her sympathies were with the social as well as the political outcasts—with the weepers by the waters of Babylon rather than those who barred the doors of the Assembly against them. Describe Miss Parmore's white tulle to her pupils, indeed! What she meant—but how accomplish it?—was to get cards for the Assembly for Mrs. St. George and Virginia, and to see to it that the latter's dress outdid Miss Parmore's as much as her beauty over-shadowed that young woman's.

But how? Through Lord Richard Marable? Well, that was perhaps not impossible.... Miss Testvalley had detected, in Mrs. Parmore, a faint but definite desire to make the young man's acquaintance, even to have him on the list of her next dinner. She would like to show him, poor young fellow, her manner implied, that there are houses in New York where a scion of the English aristocracy may feel himself at home, and discover (though, alas, too late!) that there are American girls comparable to his own sisters in education and breeding.

Since the announcement of Conchita's engagement, and the return of the two families to New York, there had been a good deal of coming and going between the St. George and Closson households—rather too much to suit Miss Testvalley. But she had early learned to adapt herself to her pupils' whims while maintaining her authority over them, and she preferred to accompany Nan to the Fifth Avenue Hotel rather than let her go there without her. Virginia, being “out,” could come and go as she pleased; but among the Parmores and Eglintons, in whose code Mrs. St. George was profoundly versed, girls in the school-room did not walk about New York alone, much less call at hotels, and Nan, fuming yet resigned—for she had already grown unaccountably attached to her governess—had to submit to Miss Testvalley's conducting her to the Closson apartment, and waiting below when she was to be fetched. Sometimes, at Mrs. Closson's request, the governess went in with her charge. Mrs. Closson was almost always in her dressing-room, since leaving it necessitated encasing her soft frame in stays and a heavily whale-boned dress; and she preferred sitting at her piano, or lying on the sofa with a novel and a cigarette, in an atmosphere of steam-heat and heavily scented flowers, and amid a litter of wedding-presents and bridal finery. She was a good-natured woman, friendly and even confidential with everybody who came her way, and, when she caught sight of Miss Testvalley behind her charge, often called to her to come in and take a look at the lovely dress Mrs. Connelly had just sent home, or the embossed soup-tureen of Baltimore silver offered by Mr. Closson's business friends. Miss Testvalley did not always accept; but sometimes she divined that Mrs. Closson wished to consult her, or to confide in her, and while her pupil joined the other girls, she would clear the finery from a chair and prepare to receive Mrs. Closson's confidences—which were usually connected with points of social etiquette, indifferent to the lady herself, but preoccupying to Mr. Closson.

“He thinks it's funny that Dick's family haven't cabled, or even written. Do they generally do so in England? I tell Mr. Closson there hasn't been time yet—I'm so bad at answering letters myself that I can't blame anybody else for not writing! But Mr. Closson seems to think it's meant for a slight. Why should it be? If Dick's family are not satisfied with Conchita, they will be when they see her, don't you think so?” Yes, certainly, Miss Testvalley thought so. “Well, then—what's the use of worrying? But Mr. Closson is a business man and expects everybody to have business habits. I don't suppose the Marquess is in business, is he?”

Miss Testvalley said no, she thought not; and for a moment there flickered up in Mrs. Closson a languid curiosity to know more of her daughter's future relations. “It's a big family, isn't it? Dick says he can never remember how many brothers and sisters he has; but I suppose that's one of his jokes.... He's a great joker, isn't he; like my Ted! Those two are always playing tricks on everybody. But how many brothers and sisters are there, really?”

Miss Testvalley, after a moment's calculation, gave the number as eight; Lord Seadown, the heir, Lord John, Lord Richard—and five girls; yes, there were five girls. Only one married as yet, the Lady Camilla. Her own charges, the Ladies Honoria and Ulrica, were now out; the other two were still in the school-room. Yes; it was a large family—but not so very large, as English families went. Large enough, however to preoccupy Lady Brightlingsea a good deal—especially as concerned the future of her daughters.

Mrs. Closson listened with her dreamy smile. Her attention had none of the painful precision with which Mrs. St. George tried to master the details of social life in the higher spheres, nor of the eager curiosity gleaming under Mrs. Parmore's pale eyelashes. Mrs. Closson really could not see that there was much difference between one human being and another, except that some had been favoured with more leisure than others—and leisure was her idea of heaven.

“I should think Lady Brightlingsea would be worn out, with all those girls to look after. I don't suppose she's had much time to think about the boys.”

“Well, of course she's devoted to her sons too.”

“Oh, I suppose so. And you say the other two sons are not married?” No, not as yet, Miss Testvalley repeated.

A flicker of interest was again perceptible between Mrs. Closson's drowsy lids. “If they don't either of them marry, Dick will be the Marquess some day, won't he?”

Miss Testvalley could not restrain a faint amusement. “But Lord Seadown is certain to marry. In those great houses it's a family obligation for the heir to marry.”

Mrs. Closson's head sank back contentedly. “Mercy! How many obligations they all seem to have. I guess Conchita'll be happier just making a love-match with Lord Richard. He's passionately in love with her, isn't he?” Mrs. Closson pursued with her confidential smile.

“It would appear so, certainly,” Miss Testvalley rejoined.

“All I want is that she should be happy; and he will make her happy, won't he?” the indulgent mother concluded, as though Miss Testvalley's words had completely reassured her.

At that moment the door was flung open, and the bride herself whirled into the room. “Oh, Mother!” Conchita paused to greet Miss Testvalley; her manner, like her mother's, was always considerate and friendly. “You're not coming to take Nan away already, are you?” Reassured by Miss Testvalley, she put her hands on her hips and spun lightly around in front of the two ladies.

“Mother! Isn't it a marvel?—It's my Assembly dress,” she explained, laughing, to the governess.

It was indeed a marvel; the money these American mothers spent on their daughters' clothes never ceased to astonish Miss Testvalley; but while her appreciative eyes registered every costly detail her mind was busy with the incredible fact that Conchita Closson—“the Closson girl” in Mrs. Parmore's vocabulary—had contrived to get an invitation to the Assembly, while her own charges, who were so much lovelier and more loveable ... But here they were, Virginia, Nan, and Lizzy Elmsworth, all circling gaily about the future bride, applauding, criticizing, twitching as critically at her ruffles and ribbons as though these were to form a part of their own adornment. Miss Testvalley, looking closely, saw no trace of envy in their radiant faces, though Virginia's was perhaps a trifle sad. “So they've not been invited to the ball, and Conchita
has,”
she reflected, and felt a sudden irritation against Miss Closson.

But the irritation did not last. This was Mrs. Parmore's doing, the governess was sure; to secure Lord Richard, she had no doubt persuaded the patronesses of the Assembly—that stern tribunal—to include his fiancée among their guests. Only—how had she, or the others, managed to accept the idea of introducing the fiancée's mother into their hallowed circle? The riddle was answered by Mrs. Closson herself. “First I was afraid I'd have to take Conchita—just imagine it! Get up out of my warm bed in the middle of the night, and rig myself up in satin and whalebones, and feathers on my head—they say I'd have had to wear feathers!” Mrs. Closson laughed luxuriously over this plumed and armoured vision. “But luckily they didn't even invite me. They invited my son instead—it seems in New York a girl can go to a ball with her brother, even to an Assembly ball... and Conchita was so crazy to accept that Mr. Closson said we'd better let her....”

Conchita spun around again, her flexible arms floating like a dancer's on her outspread flounces. “Oh, girls, it's a perfect shame you're not coming too! They ought to have invited all my bridesmaids, oughtn't they, Miss Testvalley?” She spoke with evident good will, and the governess reflected how different Miss Parmore's view would have been, had she been invited to an exclusive entertainment from which her best friends were omitted. But, then, no New York entertainment excluded Miss Parmore's friends.

Miss Testvalley, as she descended the stairs, turned the problem over in her mind. She had never liked her girls (as she already called them) as much as she did at that moment. Nan, of course, was a child, and could comfort herself with the thought that her time for ball-going had not yet come; but Virginia—well, Virginia, whom Miss Testvalley had not altogether learned to like, was behaving as generously as her sister. Her quick hands had displaced the rose-garland on Conchita's shoulder, re-arranging it in a more becoming way. Conchita was careless about her toilet, and had there been any malice in Virginia she might have spoilt her friend's dress instead of improving it. No act of generosity appealed in vain to Miss Testvalley, and as she went down the stairs to the hotel entrance she muttered to herself: “If I only could—if I only knew how!”

She was so busy with her thoughts that she was startled by the appearance, at the foot of the stairs, of a young man who stood there visibly waiting.

“Lord Richard!” she exclaimed, almost as surprised as when she had first recognized him, disguised in grimy overalls, at the Saratoga station.

Since then she had, of necessity, run across him now and then, at the St. Georges' as well as at Mrs. Closson's; but if he had not perceptibly avoided her, neither had he sought her out, and for that she was thankful. The Lord Richard chapter was a closed one, and she had no wish to re-open it. She had paid its cost in some brief fears and joys, and one night of agonizing tears; but perhaps her Italian blood had saved her from ever, then or after, regarding it as a moral issue. In her busy life there was no room for dead love-affairs; and besides, did the word “love” apply to such passing follies? Fatalistically, she had registered the episode and pigeon-holed it. If ever she were to know an abiding grief it must be caused by one that engaged the soul.

Lord Richard stood before her awkwardly. He was always either sullen or too hearty, and she hoped he was not going to be hearty. But perhaps since those days life had formed him....