This was a disconcerting idea to Marianne in many ways. First of all, it brought home to her the fact that she too was dependent on this bad-tempered stranger for the bread she ate—and young Thomas’s too. But these financial revelations also made her wonder a little about what Mrs. Mauleverer had told her of her son’s education. Had she, perhaps, when in control of his finances, grudged the money to send him to Eton and then to the University? And why had it been necessary for his uncle to purchase him his commission in the Guards? But that was all ancient history now; the fact remained that Mrs. Mauleverer was left here high and dry on the edge of the moors and it did seem hard that her son should neither visit her nor arrange any other entertainment for her. Surely a trip to Bath and one to London each year would not be beyond his means to arrange for her? No, the more she thought about Mark Mauleverer, the less she liked him, and the more, therefore, she detested the idea of being dependent on him. But at least there was one consolation: there seemed not the slightest prospect of his coming to see them.
Easter was over now, and the rolling moor that rose up behind Maulever Hall had turned from gray to green. The beautifully kept lawns around the house were green, too, and the shrubbery was a tangle of spring blossom. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Mauleverer impatiently, “they are well enough, and so they should be when you think of the sums Mark spends on their upkeep. If I had my way we would dismiss half the gardeners, and let the wilderness be a wilderness. Then perhaps I should be able to afford a barouche instead of that monstrous old carriage, and a few decent riding horses for my guests. Yes, Andrew?”
“Mr. Emsworth has called, ma’am.”
“Show him in. No, don’t run away, my dear, you must meet him some time. Best get it over with.”
“Must I?” So far, although she had shaken his unresponsive hand at the church door on Sundays, Marianne had contrived to avoid Mr. Emsworth when he visited Mrs. Mauleverer. She did not at all want to see him now, but, with Mrs. Mauleverer’s persuasive hand on hers, there seemed no help for it. Curtsying to him gravely, she was comforted by his obvious embarrassment.
“Miss Lamb!” After his usual deferential greeting to Mrs. Mauleverer he came toward her, hand outstretched. “I have been hoping greatly for a few words with you. I owe you, I feel, an apology.”
“It does not matter.” Indifferently, she let him seize and wring her hand with his moist one.
“Ah, but it does, it does to me. I would not for the world be out of charity with any of my little flock, and most particularly not with one whom my respected friend Mrs. Mauleverer delights to honor. If I may take the liberty, ma’am”—to Mrs. Mauleverer—“of calling you my friend? But as for Miss Lamb, I feel we must be friends—indeed are friends already.”
“Oh?” Marianne picked up her embroidery.
“Why, yes, friends and fellow laborers. Wherever I go in the village, to whatever house of sickness and sorrow, I find that Miss Lamb has been before me. Do not think your goodness goes unnoticed, my dear young lady. God sees it all, and so, I can tell you, do I.”
“I do not do it with that in mind. I do it to please myself—and because there is such need. I have never seen such poverty, such ignorance...”
“Never?” He took it up with bright-eyed curiosity. “You mean that you have remembered?”
“Nothing,” she said almost angrily. “About myself, that is. It is only maddening that I remember so much that does not concern me. But wherever I have lived, I am convinced I have never seen anything like the conditions of some of the cottagers here. Do you know that the Martins sleep twelve in a room, with beds three deep, and only one other room?”
“I do indeed, and it is on that very subject that I am come to speak with you, ma’am.” He turned to address himself ingratiatingly to Mrs. Mauleverer, who was showing signs of irritation at being left so long out of the conversation. “I do not like the tone of the village. Is there any hope that Mr. Mauleverer will be coming down soon? His appearance would be worth a whole detachment of troops, for the people are convinced that he is their friend. And I tell you frankly, since this Reform Bill he is so concerned with was thrown out in the Lords, there are many in the village that are neither to hold nor to bind. If the King had not dissolved Parliament, I do not know what would have happened. But of course an election is unsettling too, even in a peaceful district like this where there is no question of a contest.”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Mauleverer. “I hope the burgesses know their duty better than that. But do you mean to tell me that our dolts of villagers are beginning to concern themselves with politics?”
“They are indeed, and, between ourselves, I should feel very much safer if Mr. Mauleverer were to come down and talk some sense into them.”
She shuddered. “You mean we may have riots like last year? And be burned in our beds—or worse. I will write to Mark at once. Surely he must be returned from the North by now, and, neglectful though he is, the news that his old mother is in danger of her life must bring him home posthaste. You will excuse me, I know, Mr. Emsworth; I must catch today’s post.”
Thus summarily dismissed, the vicar took his leave, favoring Marianne once more with an almost tender pressure of the hand, and calling her his “blessed fellow worker.”
“Do you know what—” Mrs. Mauleverer settled herself at her writing desk. “I really believe that absurd Mr. Emsworth fancies himself in love with you. ‘Fellow worker’ indeed. What on earth did he mean?”
“Nothing but a lot of nonsense. You know that since you do not like the idea of my walking alone on the moors, I take my walks mostly to the village. Naturally, I have got to know many of the cottagers, and they are so terribly in need of help and advice—one must feel for them.”
“So that is where the kitchen scraps have been going! Mr. Boxall was complaining only the other day that the pigs’ bucket was coming out half empty. No, no, never look so guilty, child; if we can stave off riot and revolution with our kitchen scraps, so much the better. I am no fool, and know well enough how much you have saved me since you took over the housekeeping. If you choose to invest some of the saving in village good will, so much the better. You must let me know if there is anything more you think we should do. I have no more wish to be burned in my bed than the next person. Oh, if only Mark would agree to our visiting Bath, or, better still, London, where, I have no doubt, he means to spend the summer if Lord Grey is returned to power. And now, my dear, if you will forgive me, I must finish my letter to him.”
Marianne smiled to herself at the characteristic suggestion that she had been distracting her friend, and bent once more over the piece of household mending that had lain concealed, during Mr. Emsworth’s visit, under the more ladylike embroidery.
Her letter once despatched, Mrs. Mauleverer turned herself eagerly to the business of preparing the house for her son’s reception. She seemed in no doubt that he would come, and Marianne wondered in just what alarmist terms she had written. The preparations she ordered seemed excessive, unless Mark Mauleverer was likely to bring a whole regiment of friends with him, but, said Gibbs, you never could tell with the master. So a whole range of guest bedchambers were aired and beeswaxed, Holland covers were taken off the furniture of the formal drawing room where Mrs. Mauleverer never sat, and the lustered candelabra there and in the dining room were polished till they shone, rainbow-bright in May sunshine.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Mauleverer, satisfied with having initiated this great spring cleaning, turned herself to the more satisfactory task of refurbishing her wardrobe in case, as she put it, “Mark brought down a party of his elegant town friends.” Luckily, Marianne had persuaded her to subscribe to La Belle Assemblée and she and Martha pored over the latest number for hours. Velvet, alas, was out of fashion, and Martha who combined dressmaking with her other capacities, was soon hard at work on the carriage dress of emerald green gros de Naples that was recommended as all the rage. Since this involved such intricacies as a threefold cuff, a bias-t
rimmed skirt, and a matching pelerine, it was as much as anyone’s life was worth even to speak to her for a few days and Marianne, whose conscience often pricked her about Thomas, found her, for once, glad to have him taken off her hands.
She found him crying in the corridor one morning. Martha had boxed his ears. Gibbs had told him to “run along, do.” The whole house was topsy-turvey again that day, for Mrs. Mauleverer had belatedly remembered about the chimneys. The master sweep, summoned from Exton, had arrived when they were still at breakfast, accompanied by a little black-faced, sniveling boy, whose dangerous job it was to go up the huge chimneys and sweep them clean with his scarred and scabby elbows and knees. Marianne had exclaimed in horror at the very idea of this and Mrs. Mauleverer had been quite surprised at her suggestion that the boy, who could not have been more than eight years old, might not quite like the prospect. “But it is always done so, my dear. Where can you have grown up?” And she settled cheerfully to her day’s task of helping Gibbs refurbish her feathers by dipping them in hot water.
She looked up in surprise when Marianne made her request. “Take the child for a picnic in the long meadow? Why, yes, if you really wish to.” Her shrug suggested that people who wanted to picnic in May were little better than lunatics, but Marianne, who had been housebound for a week supervising and cleaning, found her spirits rise remarkably as she collected a simple meal, a large chip hat that Mrs. Mauleverer had given her because it was “too shabby for anything,” and the first volume of Anne of Geierstein in case Thomas left her in peace to read it.
He scampered along by her side gaily enough and she found herself troubled, as she had often been before, by the fact that she could not like him better. But there was a sharpness in his little gray eyes that she found disconcerting. She knew so little about children: Were they all so incorrigibly given to mischief? Martha seemed to find what she called his “little ways” endearing, but Marianne was not so sure. Did nice little boys occupy themselves with pulling the shells off carefully collected snails? He was happily chasing a butterfly now—a charming pursuit if one did not know that he wanted to tear off its wings.
Perhaps she had done wrong in abandoning him so completely to Martha, but, in face of her obvious hostility, and Mrs. Mauleverer’s persuasions, there had seemed no other course open to her. At all events her butterfly had escaped the eager, grubby little hands this time—which meant that Thomas came crying back to her. She forced a smile, comforted him and began to tell him the story of the Three Bears. But he was never a good listener and soon began to pick up stones and throw them at birds.
This occupied him until they reached the edge of the wood by the long meadow. Here Marianne stopped short. She had forgotten, and Mrs. Mauleverer had probably never known, that it was down to hay this year. Last time she had taken the short cut to the village, the grass had been short enough so that it did not matter where one walked, now it was a luxurious crop, almost, in this benevolent summer, ready for the scythe. She dismissed her vision of Thomas playing happily with his hoop while she read, and settled them instead on the verge of the little wood that separated the meadow from the park. Inevitably, Thomas was hungry already, so they ate their bread and cold meat and then she saw him happily started making a kind of black pudding of mud and grass while she pulled out her book and began absorbedly to read.
She had been up late the night before, playing two-handed whist for halfpenny points with Mrs. Mauleverer and submitting, as usual, to being cheated of the money her hostess lent her to play with. It was always difficult to get Mrs. Mauleverer away from the card table, and it had been well past one o clock when Marianne had finally contrived to persuade her that it was time for bed. Martha had been impatiently dismissed some time before, so Marianne had had to help her now querulous friend to bed. This involved various negotiations with false fronts and rouge removers that she found oddly more distasteful than the sick-nursing that she practiced among the cottagers. And, at last, there had been a fretful call from Mrs. Mauleverer, now looking oddly diminished in bed: “My drops! Marianne, you have forgotten my drops.”
Measuring them out grudgingly, Marianne had found herself wishing, as many times before, that she knew just what these drops were. She must ask Dr. Barton some time. By the time she had combed out her own irrepressibly curling hair and washed her face in the cold water that stood ready on her washstand, it was nearly two o’clock. The waves of bored somnolence that had overwhelmed her at the card table had given place to a tense wakefulness, and she lay for another hour or so, listening to the wind grumbling about the moor, and fighting off the terror that still lay in wait for moments like this. Would she never know who she was?
As a result she had walked about all morning in the slight state of remoteness that a bad night leaves behind it, and now the small print wavered before her eyes. Sir Walter was going his usual leisurely way about starting his book: his two mysterious travelers were somewhere in Europe ... there were descriptions ... digressions ... more descriptions...
Thomas had grown tired of his pudding and was playing an elaborate incomprehensible game on the verge of the wood. The sun had grown warmer, she leaned back more comfortably against the tree trunk that supported her and let her eyes flicker shut. Her dreams continued the journey of the two travelers, but now it was the bleak moor they were crossing, not the Swiss Alps. The dream turned nightmare, the terror was upon her again with the sound of galloping hoofs, an angry shout ... Then she was awake, still shivering with fright in the warm spring sunshine.
The angry voice was not a dream; she could hear it still, and little Thomas crying. She jumped to her feet and hurried m the direction from which the sound came. Rounding a corner of the wood, she stopped, appalled. Silhouetted against the light, a tall, black-haired, dark-faced man on a big brown horse was shouting furiously at little Thomas who had found himself a fine new game—making tracks in the luxuriant hay. He had even, by the look of things, been rolling in it, and had, indeed, done a remarkable amount of damage for so small a child, but nothing—she advanced angrily—nothing could justify so furious a tone to so small and helpless a child. The stranger’s arm was raised, now, as if to strike the child, who turned, with a little gasp of fright, saw Marianne, and ran to her.
She put a hand reassuringly in his and confronted the man, her color high with anger. “If you must strike someone,” she said, “let it be me. It is my fault the child has done the damage. And anyway”—dream-terror was forgotten in real anger now—“what right have you to be here, acting the bully? This is a private path leading to Maulever Hall and I have no doubt that great horse of yours has done quite as much damage to the hay as little Thomas here.”
Disconcertingly, the stranger laughed and swung round on the big horse to face her. “Trespassing, am I? And are you the dragon that guards the path?”
She stifled a little gasp. She could see his face now, one side darkly handsome, the other horribly marred by a great scar across the cheek. Shocked, she felt anger ebbing out of her. “Yes,” she said again, “this is a private way. You must go back the way you have come.”
“And damage the hay still more?” He was still laughing at her. “And what will you do, my dear dragon, if I tell you I have business at Maulever Hall?”
“I shall tell you that you should have come in by the main gates,” she said crisply. “This path is used only by the family. Mrs. Mauleverer will be far from pleased when she hears of the liberty you have taken.”
“Do you think so indeed? Now, it’s an odd thing, but I think her reaction will be quite other. But it is not fair to tease you so.” He lifted the beaver hat from his thickly curling hair and made her a courteous bow. “How do you do, Miss Lamb. Will you forgive me for frightening your”—he paused for a moment—“your charge.”
‘“Miss Lamb?”’ she said. “You know me? You cannot be...”
“Precisely,” he said. “Mauleverer, and very much at your service. But amazed, I must confess, that not on
e of the women over there”—he gestured to where the Hall lay hidden beyond the woods—“should have told you how—unmistakable I am.”
She colored angrily. What could she answer to this? Then, collecting herself: “I must apologize, sir, for greeting you so rudely, but truly we had no cause to expect you so soon.”
“My mother been grumbling that I never write to her?” he asked carelessly. “Well, what’s the use of telling her I am coming, when it merely means she will fret herself into hysterics if I am so much as five minutes late. As it is, I trust I will surprise her more pleasantly than I did you. I am sorry I frightened the child so, but I thought him one of the cottagers, trespassing shamelessly.”
Now she was angry again. “Of course,” she said, high-colored, “striking a cottager’s child would be nothing out of the way. What is a blow more or less to them!” And then, appalled at what she had let herself say, she was trying to stammer out an apology when he interrupted her.
No, no, Miss Lamb, do not apologize. You think me a savage, and, I suppose, with cause. It is no use telling you now that I had no intention of striking the child, so I will merely say goodbye until, as I have no doubt we must, we meet again. Have I your permission, now, to continue my journey?”
She and Thomas were blocking his path. She muttered another scarce intelligible apology, moved aside and watched him ride on, silently furious at once with herself and with him. So that was the adored Mark Mauleverer! Well, his behavior had confirmed all the bad opinions she had had of him and she could only hope that his stay this time would be as selfishly short as usual. Of course he had been going to strike the child and she could only wonder, in passing, how on earth he came to be so popular with the villagers if this was the way he treated them. But no doubt it was just because he was here so seldom.
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