In Silk Attire: A Novel

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ORMOND PLACE

A still, cold, beautiful morning in March, – the dark crimson sun slowly creeping up behind the tall and leafless trees of the wood on this Berkshire hill. There is snow everywhere, – snow on the far uplands, snow on this sloping forest, snow on the shelving ground that glides down to the banks of the smooth blue waters of the Thames. There is a ruddy glow over that wintry waste of white; for the eastern vapours deaden the light of the sun, and redden it, and steep the far horizon in a soft purple haze. There is not a breath of wind. The sere and withered stems of the tall grey rushes by the riverside are motionless, except when the wild ducks stir in their marshy secrecy, or the water-hens swim out to take a cautious look up and down the stream. Here and there, too, the river catches a streak of crimson and purple, as it lies hushed and still in the hushed, still white meadows.

Back from these meadows lies the long low hill which slopes downward to the east, and loses itself in illimitable woods. Up here on its summit is the little village of Steyne – only a church, with a square grey tower, a vicarage smothered in dark ivy, and two or three cottages. Farther along the great bank you come to the woods of Ormond Place; and right in the centre of them, in a great clearance visible for miles round, stands, fronting the river and the broad valley and the far landscape, the house in which Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knottingley, died.

It is a modern house, large, roomy, and stately, with oval-roofed greenhouses breaking the sharp descent of the walls to the ground; a house so tall and well-placed as to overlook the great elms in the park, which, on the other side of the broad and banked-up lawn, slopes down into the valley. As the red sun rises over the purple fog, it catches the pale front of the house, and sheds over it a glimmer of gold. The snow gleams cold and yellow on the evergreens, on the iron railings of the park, on the lawn where it is crossed and recrossed with a network of rabbits' footprints. Finally, as the sun masters the eastern vapours, and strikes with a wintry radiance on the crimson curtains inside the large windows (and they have on this morning a wanner light flickering upon them from within), Ormond Place, all white and gold, shines like a palace of dreams, raised high and clear over that spacious English landscape that lies cold and beautiful along the noblest of English rivers.

There was life and stir in Ormond Place this morning. The carriage-drive had been swept; the principal rooms in the house stripped of their chintz coverings; great fires lit; the children of the lodge dressed in their smartest pinafores; the servants in new liveries; harness, horses, carriages, and stables alike polished to the last degree. The big fires shone in the grates, and threw lengthening splashes of soft crimson on the thick carpets and up the palely-decorated walls. The sleeping palace had awoke, and the new rush of life tingled in its veins.

About twelve o'clock in the forenoon the carriage that had been sent to Corchester Station returned with two occupants inside. The children at the lodge, drawn up in line, bobbed a curtsey as they stared wonderingly at the carriage-window, where they saw nothing. A few minutes afterwards Annie Brunel, pale a little, and dressed entirely and simply in black, walked into her father's house between the servants, who were unconsciously trying to learn their future fate in the expression of her face. And if they did not read in that face a calm forbearance, a certain sad sympathy and patience, they had less penetration than servants generally have.

She entered one of the rooms – a great place with panelled pillars in the centre, and a vague vision of crystal and green leaves at the farther end – and sate down in one of the chairs near the blazing fire. It was not a moment of triumph – it was a moment of profound, unutterable sadness. The greatness of the place, the strange faces around her, increased the weight of loneliness she felt. And then all the reminiscences of her mother's life were present to her, and she seemed to have established a new and strange link between herself and her. It seemed as if the great chasm of time and circumstance had been bridged over, and that in discovering her mother's house, and the old associations of these bygone years, she should have discovered her also, and met the kindly face she once knew. If Annie Napier had walked into the room just then, and laid her hand on her daughter's shoulder, I do not think the girl would have been surprised.

"Was my mother ever in this house?" she asked of Mr. Cayley, not noticing that he was still standing with his hat in his hand.

"Doubtless. She was married in that little church we passed."

"And instead of spending her life here in comfort and quiet, he let her go away to America, and work hard and bitterly for herself and me."

Mr. Cayley said nothing.

"Do you know anything of her life here? How long she stayed? What were her favourite rooms? Where she used to sit?"

"No, your ladyship; I only presume Lady Knottingley must have lived here for a little while before going to Switzerland. My father might be able to tell me."

"I am very anxious to see him, – he is the only person I am anxious to see. He knew my mother; perhaps he can tell me something about her life here and in Switzerland. She may have left some things in the house – a book or a picture – that he might tell me was hers; don't you think so?"

Mr. Cayley, against his knowledge, was forced to admit that it was possible, for he saw there were tears in the girl's eyes.

"Would you care to go through the house now?" he suggested. "Mrs. Tillotson will go with you, and see what arrangements or alterations you want made. And about your future residence here – "

"I cannot stay here," she said; "the place is too big and too lonely. I could not bear to live alone in this great place."

"Your ladyship need not want for society. Both of the trustees, Lord Sefton and – "

"I will not see one of them!" she said, with flashing eyes. "I consented to see them, when you said it was necessary – but to meet them as friends! They knew my mother; they must have seen her and known her; and they never tried to help her. They were men; and they let a woman be treated like that!"

The bitter scorn of the words sounded so strangely as it came from the gentle face; but there was an indignant flush in her cheeks, and indignation in her eyes.

"My mother spent years of weary labour that she might never go amongst these people. With all her love for me, she thought it better that I, too, should work for my living, and run the chances of illness, rather than go amongst them; and am I to make friends with them now? Their condescension is great; but when a woman has lived the life that I have; she begins to mistrust people who want to be friends with you only when you become fortunate. And why do they want to be friends with me? They will take me into society? – I don't wish to go. They will offer me their wives and sisters as companions? – I prefer other companions. I would rather walk out of this house a beggar to-morrow morning, than pretend to be friends with people whom I hate!"

"Your ladyship is unjust," said Mr. Cayley. "These gentlemen tried to induce your mother to return to England, and accept that effort at compensation which Lord Knottingley made when it was too late. Nor could they show any interest in your welfare before now without revealing that secret which your mother had imposed on us all. As well blame me for not seeking you out before you came to our office. We all of us knew who you were; we were bound to let you make the first overtures yourself."

"Compensation? You imagine that a woman who had her heart broken should have accepted that tardy acknowledgment of her rights as a sufficient compensation?"

"It was all Lord Knottingley could then offer," said the lawyer, who stuck manfully to the clear outlines of the case as they lay mapped out in his brain, without regard to the distortion produced by the generous impulses of love, and pity, and indignation. These disturbant influences, in the present case, he could not well understand; for he failed to comprehend the powerful caste-hatred which the girl had sucked in with her mother's milk – a bitter and illogical prejudice, which neither the tenderness of her own nature, nor the provoked arguments of Will, nor the wise counsel and example of Mr. Anerley, had in any way tempered.

Shortly afterwards, they went on a tour of inspection through the house, accompanied by Mrs. Tillotson, a tall, thin-faced, dark woman, with placid melancholy eyes and a soft voice. The first question asked of the housekeeper by her new mistress was whether she remembered Lord Knottingley's wife. But neither Mrs. Tillotson, nor any one of the servants, had been with Lord Knottingley at that time.

"Except Brooks, my lady, perhaps; he has been with the family since he was a boy.

"Who is Brooks?"

"The lodge-keeper. Perhaps your ladyship didn't see him at the gate, for he is old, and seldom moves out-of-doors. But surely on such a day as this – "

"I saw some children – "

"They are his grandchildren – John Brooks's children. They all live in the lodge. But he is sure to present himself during the day; and I hope your ladyship won't be offended by his – his manner – his bluntness of speaking – "

When they had gone through the house, and the young girl had indicated what rooms she should occupy, they returned downstairs. There was an old man in the hall, his cap in his hand, his long white hair falling on the neck of his fine Sunday coat, which was considerably too small for him. He regarded Annie Brunel with a curious look, and said to her, as she approached —

"Pardon, my lady; I thought I'd come up and see as it were all true. And true it is – true it is."

"That is Brooks," said Mrs. Tillotson.

The girl bade the old man go into the great drawing-room.

"You don't remember me," he said. "I remember you; but as you came down them stairs, I'd 'a sworn it wasn't you. If they hadn't told me you were coming, I should ha' said it was a ghost – the ghost o' your mother as come down them stairs."

"You remember her?" she said, with an eager bright look.

"Ay, and you too. You don't remember me; but I nearly killed you once – when your pony tried to take the upper 'and on ye, and I 'it 'im, and afoor I knew where I was – "

"But where did all this happen?"

"Why, in Switzerland, where you and your mother was. I've good eyes; I can remember. And there's lots more o' the old folk as might, only they've turned 'em all off, and brought in new uns, as doesn't know nothin' o' the family, or the Place. It was your father as said I should live here till I died, and then they can turn me out, if they like; and I came up to see if it was true you had come home, and whether you'd want me to go with the rest. If you mean it, say it, plump and plain. I'm not afear'd to go; I can earn my living as well as younger men I knows on about this 'ere very place – "

"My good man, don't disquiet yourself. You will never have to leave your house through me. But I want you to tell me all you know about my mother – everything. Won't you sit down? And you will have some wine?"

Mr. Cayley rang for some wine; and Annie Brunel herself poured some into a glass, and gave it to the old man.

"I like the wine – and it's not the first time by forty year as I've tasted his lordship's wine – but I can't abide them big blazing fires as melts a man's marrow."

"Come outside, then," said the girl; "the day is pleasant enough out-of-doors."

"Ah, that's better," he said; and his keen fresh face brightened up as he stepped outside into the brisk cold air, with the brilliant sunshine lying on the crisp snow.

The two of them walked up and down the long carriage-drive, between the tall rows of bleak trees; and as the old man garrulously gossiped about the past times, and his more or less confused memories, it seemed to Annie Brunel as though the whole scene around her were unreal. The narrowing avenue of trees, the heaped-up snow, the broad shafts of sunlight falling across the path, the glimpses of the white meadows, and the blue stream, and the wintry sunshine hitting on the vane of the village church, were all so very like a theatrical "set;" while the man beside her, whom she had never seen before, seemed to be some strange link connecting her with a forgotten and inscrutable past. The assurance that he would not be "turned off to follow the rest" had softened old Brooks's usually querulous and pugnacious manner; and in his most genial fashion he recalled and recounted whatever stories he could remember of Annie Brunel's old childhood, and of her mother's happy life on the margin of that Swiss lake.

He actually gossiped his companion into cheerfulness. Forgetting all about Mr. Cayley, she went with Brooks down to the lodge; and there the old man, intensely proud of the familiarity he had already established between himself and her, presented to her, with calm airs of superiority, his overawed son and daughter-in-law. And the new mistress made herself quite at home; and had two of the children on her knee at once; and was interested in Tom's pet blackbird; and expressed her admiration of Jack's string of blown eggs; and finally invited all the young ones to tea, in the housekeeper's room, that evening at six punctually. Another visitor was expected that evening. Much as Annie Brunel desired to play the part of a secret and invisible benefactor to all her friends, she found that this would cut off from her any chance of companionship; and so, before going down into Berks, she had told the story of her altered fortunes to Nelly Featherstone, and begged of that young person to come down and stay with her for a time. Nelly burst into tears of joy; was profoundly conscious of the benefit of having so desirably rich a friend; was honestly delighted and prudently speculative at the same moment, and accepted the invitation.

Nelly was a girl of spirit. She knew she would be inspected by critical servants, and perhaps by visitors of exalted rank, and she resolved not to shame her old friend. She accurately sketched beforehand the character she would assume; fixed her demeanour; decided the tone she would adopt in speaking to Lady Annie Knottingley; and, finally, bought the current number of Punch, and dressed her hair and herself in imitation of one of the ladies of that periodical.

The carriage was sent to meet her at Corchester in the evening. The calm dignity with which she treated the servants was admirable. Nor was her dress less admirable, so far as a faithful copy of the Punch lady was concerned, except in point of colour. Unfortunately she had no guide to colour, except her own rather whimsical taste; and as several parts of her attire belonged to her dramatic wardrobe, she looked like a well-dressed lady seen through a prism.

When she entered the house, confronted the servants, was introduced to Mr. Cayley, and quietly went up to kiss Annie Brunel, her manner was excellent. A woman who makes a living by studying the ridiculous, and imitating it, can lay it aside when she chooses. Nor was her assumption of womanly dignity and reserve less a matter of ease. Nelly Featherstone was clever enough to conceal herself from the eyes of a critical London audience; surely she was able to impose on a lot of country servants, and a lawyer inexperienced in theatrical affairs.

When she came into the drawing-room before dinner, her make-up was magnificent. She was a little too gorgeous, certainly; but in these days considerable latitude is allowed in colour and shape. Miss Brunel was alone.

"Why, Nelly," she said, "what was the use of your troubling to make yourself so fine? I must have put you to so much expense."

"Well, you have," said the other. "But it isn't every day I dine at a grand house."

"And you mustn't talk to me as if I were a duchess merely because Mr. Cayley is present. I have asked him to dine with us. You must speak to me as you are speaking now."

"Oh, no, my dear, it would never do," said the practical Nelly, with a wise shake of the head. "If you don't remember who you are, I must. You are a fine lady; I am an actress. If you ask me to visit you, it is because you wish me to amuse you. But when I'm not amusing you, I must be respectful. Mr. Cayley knows who I am; the servants don't. I can be grand to them; but with him – "

"My absurd girl, why won't you be yourself? You don't need to care for Mr. Cayley, or the servants, or any one else. Mr. Cayley knows I was an actress; if the servants don't, they will very soon. And you are here merely as my friend; and I am deeply indebted to you for coming; and if Mr. Melton will only refrain from changing the pieces for weeks to come, we shall have a pleasant romp together down here. By the way, did you hear some absurd noises a few minutes ago?"

"I did."

"That was my first token of popularity. I had the lodge-keeper's children up here to tea; and as they all got a lump of cake when they went away, they collected round the door outside and cheered. I think they call that intimidation and bribery – buying the popular vote, or something of the kind."

During dinner an obvious battle was being waged between Nelly and the butler. But the official and cumbrous dignity of the one was no match for the splendid and haughty languor of Nelly's eyes, and the indolent indifference of her manner and tone. Somehow the notice of the servants was chiefly drawn to Miss Featherstone; but she decidedly managed to conquer them, and that in a style which puzzled and amused her friend at the head of the table. Nor would Nelly permit the least familiarity of approach on the part of her hostess. And as it would have been preposterous to have chatted confidentially with a person who returned these advances with a marked deference and respect, "my lady" fell into her friend's whim, and the conversation at dinner was consequently somewhat peculiar.

When the two women were left alone, however, Annie Brunel strongly remonstrated. But Nelly was firm:

"If you don't know who you are, I do."

Drawing two low easy-chairs in towards the fire, they sat down and entered into mutual confidences. The one had much to tell – the other much to suggest; and never had two children more delight in planning what they would do if they were emperors, than had these two girls in concocting plots for the benefit of all the persons they knew, and a great many more.

Miss Brunel took a note from her pocket, and gave it to her companion to read.

"In strict confidence," she added.

These were the words Nelly saw: – "A friend, who has urgent reasons for remaining unknown has placed to the credit of Mr. Hubert Anerley, at the London and Westminster Bank, the sum of 30,000*l. Mr. Anerley is asked to accept this money as a free and frankly-offered gift, to be used on behalf of himself and his family. A bank-note of* 100*l. is enclosed, to satisfy Mr. Anerley that this communication is made in good faith.*"

"Thirty thousand pounds!" said Nelly, in an awed whisper. "I have often thought of some one sending me a lot of money – thousands, millions of money – but I think if any one were actually to send me a hundred pounds, I should die of surprise first and joy afterwards."

"The money has already been placed to his account at the bank; and this note will be sent to him to-morrow, when Mr. Cayley returns to town. How I should like to send old White the prompter a hundred pounds – the poor old man who has that dreadful wife!"

"Don't do anything of the kind, my dear," said Nelly, sagely. "He would starve his wife worse than ever, because he wouldn't earn a penny until he had drunk every farthing of the money you sent him."

"Perhaps you will forbid my giving you anything?"

"Certainly not; I should be glad of a cup of tea or coffee."

"Which?"

"I like coffee best, but I prefer tea," said Nelly, with grave impartiality.

Tea and coffee having been procured, they continued their talk.

"You went to my lodgings?"

"Yes."

"And secured them for an indefinite time?"

"Yes."

"And all my clothes and things are as I left them?"

"Yes – that is, as far as I could look over them. Mr. Glyn was with me."

"Oh, he has forgiven you again!"

"Certainly not," said Nelly, with a touch of indignation. "He has not forgiven me, for I never provoked a quarrel with him in my life. He has come to his senses, that is all; and he is no sooner come to them than he is off again. But this is the final blow; he will never get over this."

"This what?"

"My disappearance from London without telling him. I go back. He comes to see me; is surprised, offended; wants me to be penitent for having annoyed him by my silence. Of course I am not. Then he becomes angry, demands to know where I have been. I tell him that is my business, and he goes off in a fury. That's nothing new. But then he sends me a formal note, saying that unless I write to him and explain my absence from London he will never see me again."