“Your cousin?”
“Yes, my cousin, Ralph Urban. Though, truly, he is more like a brother to me, since we were brought up together. And that puts me in mind that I must write a note to him, too, and have him bring me the pelisse I left behind. I do not like to be charging the Countess with my commissions, but Ralph is quite another matter. He has been running my errands for years. But the first question is, whether you care to have them come. It will be merely an afternoon’s visit, since Lady Lashton never sleeps from home. No need to put yourself out for them: a cold collation, perhaps, a ramble in the garden, a game at cards ... I am convinced you would find the Countess the easiest of guests, and as for her daughters, they are the most delightful girls in the world; to meet them is to love them.”
“By all means invite them.” Mrs. Mauleverer was touchingly pleased at the idea of being visited by a Countess, and an invitation for any day that suited the party was despatched before Lady Heverdon went out for her ride.
To Marianne’s surprise, she returned in ample time to keep their afternoon engagement, and made her appearance dressed in a close-fitting gown of palest gray muslin that made her look something between a nun and an angel. She proved herself, too, a surprisingly pleasant companion on the walk to the village. Last night’s haughty manner had entirely disappeared and she plied Marianne with friendly questions about herself: Could she really remember nothing! It was the most romantic thing, and what did the doctor think? Was there no hope at all?
She really seemed to want an answer to these questions, and Marianne rather reluctantly explained Dr. Barton’s continued hope that something might suddenly bring memory back to her in a flood. The subject was an increasingly painful one to her, since she herself had become, as the slow weeks passed, less and less hopeful, and was now almost convinced that she was doomed for life to her present anomalous position.
“And yet”—she had said something of this to Lady Heverdon—“how ungrateful it is of me to say so. After all, if I did recover my memory, it would probably be to find myself in far worse case.”
“Well, yes,” said Lady Heverdon. “I would rather be Mrs. Mauleverer’s companion than little Thomas’s nursemaid any day. A spoiled brat if ever I saw one.”
“What, have you met him already? I do hope he has not been making a nuisance of himself. I will speak to Martha about it if he has.”
“No, no, pray do not. It was nothing.” And then, breaking off: “Oh, what a love of a little village!”
She proved an admirable audience at the Bible class and the children, impressed by her beauty and the elegance of her dress, behaved so well that the lesson was over more quickly than usual. Emerging from the room where it was held, they found the village street unusually full of people. Mothers who usually took not the slightest interest in their children’s whereabouts had come, today, to fetch them from the Bible class and were waiting outside in a little talkative knot. Marianne, who knew how close was the liaison between servants’ hall and village, was not surprised to hear whispers indicating that the village women were well aware that Lady Heverdon was likely soon to be their landlord’s wife, and from her high color and elaborate pretense of indifference, she suspected that Lady Heverdon, too, had a pretty good idea of what was going on in the women’s minds.
As they passed the vicarage, Mr. Emsworth came hurrying out of the gate and stopped to pantomime surprise at sight of them. There was nothing for it but to introduce him to Lady Heverdon and watch with dry amusement as he did his fawning best to ingratiate himself with her. Marianne’s dislike of him had grown rather than diminished as her encounters with him in the village had become more numerous. These days it seemed impossible to visit a sickbed or call on the parents of one of her Bible class without his putting in a “coincidental” appearance and, more often than not, insisting on seeing her home to the park gates. Today, however, he was obviously too much in awe of Lady Heverdon to suggest this, merely bowing to her a great many times, very low, in the middle of the village street, and promising himself the pleasure of calling on her in the near, the very near future.
“What an absurd little man,” said Lady Heverdon as they turned into the footpath across the long meadow. “I take it the living is in Mr. Mauleverer’s gift.”
“Yes.” Marianne felt bound to defend Mark Mauleverer’s choice. “I believe he and Mr. Emsworth were at the University together.”
“I expect he is a good sort of a man enough,” said Lady Heverdon carelessly. “Fit to fill a gap at a dinner table, or make a fourth at whist. But, I forget, Mrs. Mauleverer does not play cards, does she?”
“Not play at cards! Indeed she does.” Marianne stopped and colored, wishing she had not spoken. It had not occurred to her before, but of course Mauleverer must be aware of his mother’s habit of cheating at cards, and must have taken this means of preventing his beloved from finding out about it. It all proved—if more proof were needed—the extent of his devotion to her.
They had reached the stile that led into the home wood now, and Lady Heverdon changed the subject to exclaim at the loneliness of the path: “Surely you do not walk this way unaccompanied, Miss Lamb?”
“Why not? There is no one here who would hurt me.”
“I am sure of it. I could see that they all love you dearly in the village, and, of course, with good cause. But what about poachers? You know as well as I do that they will stop at nothing when they are out after game. I heard some dreadful tales at Lashton House about savage attacks, and even murders they have committed when surprised at their work. After all, merely to be caught means transportation, so why should they stick at murder, if they think it will save them?”
“No one in the village would hurt me,” said Marianne stoutly.
Lady Heverdon shrugged: “I expect you are right. But just the same, I believe if I were you I would let that would-be gallant parson of yours squire you home another time. Better safe than sorry, you know.”
Two notes were waiting for Lady Heverdon when they got back to Maulever Hall. One was from the Countess of Lashton announcing her intention of calling on Mrs. Mauleverer on the day after next.
“Oh dear,” exclaimed that lady when Lady Heverdon told her the news. “How could I have been so stupid as to forget that wretched election. It will still be going on, and I very much fear Mark will not be able to give them the meeting.”
“Never mind,” said her guest. “It will be a consolation to us in his absence.”
Marianne, quietly listening as usual, found herself wondering whether this had been Lady Heverdon’s idea all along. Did she, perhaps, not wish Mauleverer to meet her cousin, Ralph Urban?
She rebuked herself, later, for this unworthy idea when Lady Heverdon announced mournfully that her cousin Ralph would not, after all, be able to escort the young ladies: “It is too provoking, but it seems he has urgent business in town. But we shall not lack for cavaliers, since they bring Mr. Merritt and Mr. Fenner, a most gentlemanlike couple, and quite devoted to the young ladies.”
Marianne woke early on the day of the visit, and was relieved to see that it was brilliantly fine, for while making lavish arrangements for the comfort and feeding of this rather formidable group of guests, she had found herself constantly wondering how they were to be entertained. The Countess, who kept late hours even in the country, had insisted that they would not trouble Mrs. Mauleverer even for an early dinner, but they would of course be served a cold collation as soon as they arrived. This would take up some time, and give the riders in the party a chance to rest, but what then? Since Mauleverer did not play, the billiard table had gone to wrack and ruin, and his mother’s idea of entertaining guests was to sit mildly chatting about clothes, food, and the deplorable behavior of the lower classes. Whether this would be adequate to entertain a party of lively young society people, Marianne very gravely doubted. But at least, after luncheon, they could all walk about, exclaim at the variegated blossom of the shrubberies and lose themselves, if they s
o desired, in the wilderness. After that, she hoped that Mauleverer, who had promised to return as early as he possibly could, would be there to help entertain them. As for her, she intended to keep out of the way. Her part of the day’s exertions would be done when the guests had been fed.
The party arrived with admirable punctuality, and Marianne, waiting to lead the ladies upstairs to the rooms set aside for their toilette, was able to observe that the Countess was a thin, proud-looking woman engaged in fighting a losing battle to preserve the remnants of pink-and-white British beauty. Her daughters, less fortunate, had no particular beauty to defend, but showed every sign of having inherited their mother’s pride in lavish measure. The two gentlemen who attended them struck Marianne as such complete nonentities that she found herself unable, throughout the visit, to remember whether the slender pale one was Mr. Merritt and the robust red-faced one Mr. Fenner, or vice versa. Luckily, the question, so far as she was concerned, was quite academic, since the entire party seemed to find her just as invisible as Lady Heverdon had done on the first day of her visit. The Misses Lashton chattered away to each other, as she led them upstairs to the green dressing room, as if they were entirely alone, exchanging frank criticisms of everything they saw, from Mrs. Mauleverer’s gray morning gown (deplorably out of style) to the green dressing room’s rep curtains (shabby). Later, as she handed cold meats and glasses of wine, Marianne observed, with wry amusement, that Lady Lashton’s companion, Miss Barker, received and obviously expected exactly the same treatment, losing no time in retiring to an inconspicuous corner, where she made up by an enormous meal for what she was missing socially.
Sorry for this shapeless dumpling of a woman, Marianne joined her in her corner as soon as everyone had been served, and attempted to engage her in conversation. But it was no use. Miss Barker replied in monosyllables, darting, as she did so, anxious glances at the gay group settled carelessly around the table. Her place, it seemed, was to be seen, if necessary, but never heard. Abandoning the attempt, Marianne settled more comfortably in the corner and watched the party. It seemed to be going well. Lady Heverdon was obviously on the best of terms with the Misses Lashton and their cavaliers, and was being regaled by a minute account of everything that had taken place at Lashton House since she left. The Countess, of course, had fallen to Mrs. Mauleverer and seemed to be enjoying herself very much in cross-examining her about the domestic economy of Maulever Hall. Listening to her questions, which were frank to the point of rudeness, Marianne could not help being sorry for her gentle hostess, who knew so little about her own household that she was reduced to making up the answers as she went along. “And soup?” came the Countess’s harsh and carrying voice. “I suppose you give soup regularly to the peasants in the winter months. I have found one can make a most nourishing broth out of the leavings from the servants’ hall. But then, I suppose our staff at Lashton must be quite double yours here. Tell me, how do you manage?”
“Why, truly, I am not quite sure.” Mrs. Mauleverer had been darting pleading glances at Marianne throughout the cross-examination, but now, finding these useless, she tried a direct appeal: “Marianne, my love, how do we manage?”
Thus directly applied to, Marianne had no choice but to rise and cross the room to where Mrs. Mauleverer sat, but was relieved to have her answer forestalled by Lady Lashton, who rose to her feet and moved away to the window. “How very disagreeable,” she exclaimed, “it is actually raining.”
“Oh darling Mamma!” Her daughters hurried to join her and mingle their exclamations of dismay with hers. What to do now, was the universal question, and once more Marianne was aware of Mrs. Mauleverer’s appealing glance. But how could she arrange entertainment for people who did not even see her? “Why not suggest charades?” she murmured to Mrs. Mauleverer, but this idea, when put forward, was condemned as a dead bore. “Charades have been out this six months or more,” said the elder and plainer Miss Lashton.
At this moment, the plump companion joined Marianne with a whispered request that she might retire for a few moments. “Riding backward in the hot sun has done my business as usual,” she explained as Marianne led the way upstairs, and Marianne, settling her on her own bed was at once too polite and too kind to suggest that three helpings of everything and several glasses of wine might have something to do with it too. Besides, she was too grateful for the excuse to escape to cavil at its reason. Promising to call the sufferer in plenty of time before the party left, she made her way down the back stairs to the little ground floor sanctum on the wrong side of the green baize door that she had made her own. There were various things here that she needed to see to. Boxall, the bailiff, had asked her to look through his monthly accounts for him before he submitted them to his master, and recognizing this as a true and overwhelming compliment, she worked her way through them with the greatest care, marking, here and there, a point where Boxall’s mathematics and spelling had failed him, for his talent was all outdoors, and as he himself said, he could more easily plan the year’s cropping for the whole estate, than set down in writing what should be done with a single field. Reading through page after page of this cramped and difficult writing, Marianne was aware of the soft incessant patter of rain on the windows and wondered with half her mind what Mrs. Mauleverer and Lady Heverdon had found to do with their visitors. At last, conscience and curiosity together became too much for her and she put down Mr. Boxall’s smudged pages, sighed and made her way through the baize door to the front of the house.
VI
As Marianne entered the drawing room from a side door, Mauleverer appeared, still in riding dress, at the other end of the room. Both paused in surprise, Marianne silently, Mauleverer with a suppressed exclamation that sounded like an oath. A large round table that usually held knickknacks and albums had been pulled out into the center of the room and covered with a green baize cloth, and the entire party was gathered round it, bent so eagerly over their game of cards that they did not notice the new arrivals.
Bright spots of color burned high on Mrs. Mauleverer’s cheekbones, and her hand shook as she gathered up her cards. “My point, I think,” her voice slurred, almost, Marianne thought, as if she were drunk.
There was an awkward little stir around the table. Lady Lashton’s eyebrows were high, her daughters whispered to each other across Mr. Merritt who was exchanging a speaking glance with Mr. Fenner. Lady Heverdon alone seemed entirely composed, “Yes, your game, Mrs. Mauleverer, and we are all your debtors.” And then, she looked up, saw Mauleverer, and turned suddenly white. “Why, Mr. Mauleverer! This is a pleasant surprise! We did not expect you for another hour or more.”
“Yes.” He advanced upon them, almost, Marianne thought, threateningly. “I came home early in honor of your guests, Lady Heverdon. I beg you will present me. But first”—a hard glance swept the table with its litter of cards and counters —“if you have been playing, as it seems, for real stakes, I hope you will let me repay your losses. I told you that my mother does not play at games of hazard.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Merritt, “She plays all too successfully.”
Mauleverer advanced another step and seemed to tower over him. “I do not know your name, sir, but I demand to know what you mean by that.”
Merritt’s round red face seemed to crumple and he shrank back in his chair under Mauleverer’s furious glance. “Why—I ... I meant nothing at all, sir; merely that Mrs. Mauleverer has had a most remarkable run of luck which, as a charming hostess, she richly deserves.”
Lady Heverdon had risen and moved round between the two men. “And, truly,” she said, “we are all tired of cards and grateful to be interrupted. But it rained so—” Her voice was apologetic, almost pleading, and she gazed up at him with her huge blue eyes distended.
His dark gaze met hers uncompromisingly. “It has stopped raining now,” he said, “and I shall be glad to show your guests about the park—such as it is.”
But Lady Lashton and her daughters had r
isen and, among a little flutter of introductions, announced that since it was very late—the moon was new—they could not risk being benighted. Marianne was watching Mrs. Mauleverer whose febrile excitement had given way to a look of almost childish terror at her son’s appearance. Now she rose: “I am not well,” she said. “I beg you will excuse me.” And then, with almost a gulp of relief: “Miss Lamb!”
Marianne was across the room in an instant and supported her friend through brief, awkward leave-takings before leading her up to her own room and helping her out of her gown whose elegantly boned bodice was contributing to her discomfort. She said nothing until Marianne had put her into a loose negligee, then settled on a sofa, moaning, half to herself, “Mark will be so angry. Did you see how he looked?” And then: “Send me Martha: I must have my drops, quickly! And tell them I will not come down to dinner. Make what apologies you will to Lady Heverdon. I cannot ... cannot face him.”
Martha, summoned from the nursery where she was playing with little Thomas, rose grumbling. “I said no good would come of it,” she said. “Nor ever has. Yes, yes, I’ll go to her.” And then, with a quick, venomous glance for Marianne, “You see who she needs when she is ill.”
“I am glad she has you.”
When Marianne returned, reluctantly, to the drawing room, the visitors had gone and Mauleverer and Lady Heverdon were, all too evidently, quarreling passionately. “You should have explained,” wailed Lady Heverdon as Marianne entered the room.
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