“Point is, you wouldn’t have been there to have seen it,” said Mr Ringwood dryly. “Don’t suppose you meant to stay at Sheringham Place, did you?”
“No, but — Well, naturally I should have gone down there from time to time, and — ” He stopped, looking sulky, and rather defensive. “So you think I was wrong to decide to take Kitten there, do you? Much you know about it!”
Mr Ringwood disregarded this rider, and answered frankly: “Yes, I do.”
“But, good God, man, what else could I have done?” Sherry burst out. “We could not have continued as we were! Dash it, we have not been married much above four months, and if you knew the half of the crazy things Kitten would have done had I not been at hand to prevent her — ”
“Ah!” interrupted Mr Ringwood. “Put your finger on it, Sherry, haven’t you? Didn’t do crazy things when you were at hand.”
“In the devil’s name, how could I always be at hand? Did you expect me to change my whole way of living, simply because I was married?”
“Expected you to settle down a trifle, dear boy. Never fancied the notion of it for myself, which is why I’ve stayed single. Seems to me a fellow can’t continue in the same way once he ties himself up. What do you mean to do now?”
“Find her, of course! I made sure she would have gone to my aunt Fakenham, or even to Lady Sefton, but she did not. I tell you I’m at my wits’ end, Gil! What with setting it about she’s indisposed, and fobbing people off, and trying to undo the harm that infernal race caused, and not knowing where to look for her — yes, and being obliged to continue living in this damned house — well, there are moments when I’d like to wring Kitten’s neck! I haven’t had a day’s hunting since she left home; I’ve had to career all over England in search of her; and I’m so worried I can’t sleep at night! Dash it, she’s no more fit to be fending for herself than that canary you gave her! And I don’t need you to tell me I’m responsible for her! I should never have been mad enough to have married a chit out of the schoolroom, and that’s the truth of it!”
Mr Ringwood looked at him under his brows. “Wishing you hadn’t, Sherry?”
“I wish I hadn’t married anyone!” Sherry said petulantly. “Don’t you, Gil! There’s nothing but trouble, and anxiety; and the devil of it is that you can’t alter it, and — no, you don’t even want to! The thing is, I suppose a fellow grows used to having a wife, for all he may not think it, and then — Damnation, I miss her like the devil, Gil!”
“Dare say she’ll come back to you,” said Mr Ringwood, at his most phlegmatic.
“Yes, that’s what I tell myself, and sometimes I believe it. It’s possible she’s playing a trick on me, for she was always the naughtiest chit imaginable! And then I think she ain’t, and when I start wondering what kind of a scrape she may have got herself into by now — well, it ain’t surprising I can’t sleep! If only I had the least notion where to look for her!” He ran a hand through his fair locks. “Isabella is back in town, or so they tell me. She may be able to help me, for she’s known Kitten since they were children. I’ve sent round a note, asking her if she will see me privately. I don’t know if I can trust her not to spread the truth round town, but if Kitten don’t come back soon it will be bound to leak out, so I dare say it makes no odds.”
Mr Ringwood, retiring from this interview in due course, was not ill-satisfied with what he had heard. He told Lord Wrotham that he fancied the business would work out tolerably well, and strongly vetoed his lordship’s suggestion that it was time they told Sherry the truth.
“Damn it, Gil, I don’t like it!” George said. “You don’t know what a man can suffer when the woman he loves — ”
“No reason to think Sherry loves Kitten.”
“I believe he does. He looks dashed ill, and he don’t hunt, or go to the races, or even look in at Watier’s!”
“Won’t do him any harm,” said Mr Ringwood, unmoved by this pathetic picture. “Matter of fact, I think you’re right, and he does love her. But he don’t know it yet, and he’d best find out. Talked of wringing her neck today. Got to go a long way beyond that, George.”
George was so indignant at the thought of anyone’s wanting to wring Hero’s neck that he made no further attempt to persuade Mr Ringwood to relent towards Sherry. The only circumstance which still worried him, he said, was the unhappiness Hero must be suffering. Mr Ringwood agreed to it, but said that it would be better for the poor little soul to be unhappy for a short space now than to grow estranged from Sherry, which was what he feared might have happened had the strange marriage continued along its unsatisfactory course. Moreover, he was able to assure George that Lady Saltash had taken an instant liking to Hero, and, having heard the whole story of the marriage, had accorded her grandson’s intervention her unqualified approval.
What her ladyship had actually said was: “You’re not such a fool as I had thought, Gilbert. Don’t tell me what Anthony said and did! I’ve known that boy since before he was breeched. An engaging scamp, that’s what he is! Go back to London, and take that silly creature, Ferdy Fakenham, with you, for if ever anyone gave me the fidgets it’s he!”
When Sherry visited Miss Milborne, he found her not in quite her usual looks or spirits, but as his mind was wholly occupied by his own troubles, and he was not, in any event an observant young gentleman, he noticed nothing amiss, but plunged immediately into the object of his visit.
She was very much shocked. Unlike his aunt, and Lady Sefton, and Mr Ringwood, she neither said nor believed that Sherry was to blame for Hero’s flight. Never having felt the smallest desire to depart from the strictly conventional herself, the story of the racing engagement quite dismayed her. She could not imagine how any female with the least pretension to elegance of mind, or propriety of taste, could have even listened to such a proposal without a blush of mortification. She could not find it in herself to blame Sherry for having been very much provoked; and she would have extended her warmest sympathy towards him would he but have accepted it. But such was his perversity that no sooner did he find himself in the company of a partisan than he spared no pains to assure her that the fault had been his from start to finish, and that if his Hero had erred in judgment it was through innocence and his own neglect. Miss Milborne thought that such sentiments did him honour, and said so, to which his lordship replied shortly: “Fudge!”
She would have lent him any aid that lay in her power, but with the best will in the world there was nothing she could do, since she had no more idea than he where Hero might have hidden herself. For several years they had not been intimate. Only one idea, and that a painful one, occurred to her. She asked, with a little difficulty, if Sherry had spoken to Lord Wrotham.
“He didn’t know anything,” Sherry replied impatiently. “Thinks she’s in the country, indisposed.”
Miss Milborne rather carefully smoothed out her handkerchief. “I only thought ... It has sometimes seemed to me that — that George displays a marked partiality for Hero, Sherry.”
“Oh, there’s nothing in that!” he said. “Good God, you should know George don’t give a button for any female but yourself!”
Miss Milborne coloured faintly, and looked up as though she would have liked to have said more. But Sherry, having no interest outside his own pressing problem, was already on his feet, and wishing to take his leave. She did not detain him; upon consideration, she did not even know what it was that she wanted to say to him. As she shook hands, she informed him, a little consciously, that she was going into Kent for a time. He accepted this without surprise or interest, and so they parted. Miss Milborne did her best not to fell ill-used, but could not help reflecting that his lordship was a singularly impercipient young man.
For Miss Milborne, for the first time in her life, had behaved in a manner contrary to her own interests, thus disobliging her Mama, and leading that redoubtable dame to prophesy a single existence for her, attended by all the ills that were commonly supposed to wait on spinsters. M
iss Milborne, travelling to Severn Towers with the dutiful intention of fulfilling her Mama’s expectations, had been received by the Duchess with every mark of distinguishing attention. There had been a number of other, and certainly more exalted, guests, but she had known herself to be the guest of honour, and had had no difficulty in interpreting her hostess’s benign manner to signify approval of Severn’s suit. She had been shown all over the vast pile, even down to the linen and stillrooms; obviously interested family retainers had bobbed curtsies to her; the housekeeper had initiated her into the mysteries of domestic arrangement; and the Duchess had talked in a casual way of her own plans when her son should bring home a bride. Nothing could have been more gratifying, and why Miss Milborne should suddenly have taken fright was a matter passing the comprehension of her parent. Miss Milborne found herself unable to advance any reasonable explanation for her behaviour. All she would say was that she did not love the Duke, and this was too frivolous an utterance to be accepted by Mama.
Miss Milborne, losing herself in the enormous mansion, being driven about the prosperous estate, dining off gold plate, and being waited on by armies of liveried servants, saw herself mistress of all this grandeur, and, since she was but human, was not unattracted by the vision. But at her side was the unromantic figure of her ducal suitor, a model of punctilious civility, treating her with pompous respect, bestowing his admiration on her rather as though it had been an accolade. His grace was as correct in his advances to the lady whom he designed to make his wife as in every other detail of his well-ordered life, the greatest display or ardour he permitted himself to indulge in being the fervent pressing of his lips to her hand. Miss Milborne doubted whether it would ever enter his head to seize her in a rough embrace, and to devour her with kisses as Lord Wrotham had shown lamentably little hesitation in doing. She knew that he would never rave and storm at her, make extravagant gestures, threaten to blow his brains out, or spend all his energy in procuring for her flowers that were out of season. She thought his notions of propriety would preclude his even quarrelling mildly with her, since whenever she displeased him a more than ordinarily stolid expression would descend upon his countenance, and he would withdraw from her vicinity, reappearing after a judicious lapse of time as though nothing whatever had happened to disturb the harmony of their intercourse. He disapproved of gaming, took no more than a fashionable interest in racing, chose his friends from amongst the more sedate of his contemporaries, and was prone to moralize upon such dismal subjects as the decay of modern manners, the frivolity of the younger set, and the lack of modest restraint observable in the damsels at present gracing Society.
And all at once, just as everything was in train for a brilliant betrothal, Miss Milborne knew that she could not marry Severn. Aghast at her own conduct in having encouraged his advances, wishing she had never allowed George to goad her into accepting the Duchess’s invitation to Severn Towers, she did what she could to prevent his grace’s coming to the point. Her manner towards him was retiring to the point of coldness. The Duchess, observing it, reiterated her opinion that she was a very pretty behaved girl, for such formal reserve exactly suited her own ideas of well-bred behavior. George might have been cast into despair by a tenth of such repulsive chilliness as was being shown to the Duke, but Severn, knowing himself to be the biggest matrimonial prize in the market, read it as admirable female modesty, and was not in the least discouraged. Miss Milborne felt hunted, and if Lord Wrotham had appeared at the Towers he might have ridden off with her across his saddle-bow with her very good will. But although his lordship would no doubt have obliged her had he had the least idea of her desire, he had no such idea, and the respectability of the Duke’s ancestral home was undisturbed by his romantic presence. The Duke declared himself; Miss Milborne declined his flattering offer; the Duchess was both staggered and affronted; and Mrs Milborne expressed her unshakable belief that her wretched daughter was out of her senses.
She brought her back to London, and it was in London that the full evils consequent upon the rejection of his grace’s hand were borne in upon Mrs Milborne. No one believed that his grace had come up to scratch. She read the truth in the discreetly veiled smiles which met any reference to the affair, and was mortified indeed. The Polite World had no doubt at all that his grace’s Mama had triumphed by subtle means, and that the return of the Milbornes to town betokened defeat.
Miss Milborne was quite as conscious as her parent of this disagreeable circumstance. She had foreseen it, and it had taken a considerable degree of resolution to make her refuse the Duke’s offer. What she had not foreseen was that Lord Wrotham should fall into vulgar error.
But this was precisely what that impetuous young man had done, and it apparently led him to suffer a revulsion of feeling. Instead of being relieved and gratified at the Beauty’s return, unbetrothed, to London, he laughed in a harsh and bitter way, and uttered some comments so caustic as to be almost insulting. These were naturally repeated, and came in due course to Miss Milborne’s ears. She experienced a strong desire to box George’s ears, but as he did not come near her she was unable to gratify it. A period of calm reflection made her acknowledge to herself that she might have been in some degree to blame for George’s abominable lack of faith in her, and instead of wishing any longer to box his ears she would have given much to have had the opportunity of explaining herself to him. Such signs of encouragement as might be bestowed on a gentleman by a modest female she bestowed on George, and he received them with a curling lip, and an eye sparkling with contempt. Miss Milborne, who had fallen into the way of thinking that he might be treated with impunity like a stray mongrel, suffered a severe shock, and was torn by indignation and a curious satisfaction that he could not, after all, be whistled back to heel at her pleasure.
But to have lost in far too rapid succession three such notable suitors as my Lord Sheringham, his Grace of Severn, and my Lord Wrotham was a disaster hard indeed to bear. The most serious pretender to her hand was now a mere baronet, for she knew very well that such admirers as the Honourable Ferdy Fakenham paid court to her as a matter of fashion, and had no real intentions towards her. Sir Montagu Revesby’s increasingly assiduous attentions came as a slight balm to a wounded spirit, but when Mrs Milborne said that since all her undutiful child saw fit to do in London was to throw her future prosperity to the winds she would be better off in the country, she raised no demur. This retirement might savour of a retreat, but nothing could be more mortifying than to be obliged to face the sympathy or the amusement of the Polite World.
So Miss Milborne departed to recruit her spirits in Kent; and Lord Wrotham flung himself into the dogged pursuit of pleasure, behaving in a very reckless style; losing a great deal of money at the gaming tables; all but breaking his neck on the hunting-field; accepting any and every wager offered him without the smallest hesitation; indulging in orgies of drinking at Long’s, Limmer’s, the Daffy Club, and any other such haunts; flaunting a succession of Cyprians before the scandalized eyes of the world; being very short-tempered and aggressive towards his fellow-men; and causing thoughtful gentlemen to remove themselves from his vicinity by culping wafer after wafer at Manton’s Shooting Gallery.
Sherry, meanwhile, was no nearer to discovering his vanished wife’s whereabouts than he had been at the outset; and he was not finding that custom was making him grow any more reconciled to her absence. As day succeeded day he missed her increasingly, and the house they had chosen together became ever more unfriendly to him. He even missed the canary’s shrill song, which had so often exasperated him. He had chafed at the bonds which matrimony had imposed on him; he had groaned at the necessity of escorting Hero to balls and routs; he had fancied his comfort to have been ruined by her habit of getting into scrapes from which he was obliged to rescue her; he had even remembered nostalgically the days of his untrammelled bachelordom, and had thought that he would like to have them back again. Well, Hero had given them back to him, and they proved to be Dead
Sea fruit. While she remained lost to him, he had no zest even for hunting; and when one of his associates challenged him to paint all the turnpikes from London to Barnet a beautiful scarlet he stunned this enterprising gentleman by replying curtly: “Folly!” and utterly refused to accept the challenge.
The news of Hero’s disappearance had of course reached the Dowager Lady Sheringham, and as she had the best of reasons for knowing that her daughter-in-law was not, as the world believed, recuperating at Sheringham Place, she wrote to demand an explanation of Sherry. After turning her letter over once or twice, Sherry drove down to Kent, and gave her the explanation in person. Mr Paulett, who was present, started to bemoan a marriage which he had always foreseen would end in just such a way, and was startled to find himself confronting a nephew he did not recognize. Sherry was neither boyishly sulky, nor violently threatening. He was icily and implacably civil, and he showed his uncle out of the room, holding the door open for him, and bowing with a cold formality Mr Paulett found singularly unnerving.
The Dowager, observing these signs of maturity in her son, then shed tears, and would have held his hand and condoled with him had he permitted it. She said that he must not mind her saying that she had never considered Hero Wantage to have been good enough for him. Unfortunately for the rest of the speech which she had been about to make, the Viscount replied that he minded it very much; that there was no truth in the statement; and that he must request his mother never to repeat it. He then took from her all power of saying anything at all by informing her that he proposed to make certain changes in his way of life, which would necessitate her removal — at her convenience, he added, with this new and quelling politeness — from Sheringham Place to the Dower House. He further announced his intention of taking up his residence in the house in Grosvenor Square as soon as he should be reunited with his wife, and begged her ladyship to remove from it any such articles of furniture as belonged to her, or for which she had a partiality. He had formed the immediate intention of redecorating the house, and he was going to put this in hand without loss of time.
Friday’s Child Page 29