by Jan Constant
“What is it? It looks like an herb,” Emma asked curiously.
“It’s rosemary—for rememberance, according to Shakespeare,” she was told as the lady retired to her boudoir, sniffing gently at the herb, a reminiscent smile playing across her face.
“Well! Do you think he is about to be reinstated?” wondered Elvira, when acquainted with this interesting happening.
“I rather think he hopes to be,” said Emma, and, during the next days, her surmise proved correct.
Lord Devern presented his card, was admitted, and inquired kindly after the invalid, his conversation so unexceptional that it could disturb no one, and when after the regulation length of time he took his leave, Lady Beauvale could only comment upon the correctness of his manner.
A few days later, finding Captain Gray upon the front steps, he joined him, and both were admitted together. The rifleman had come expressly to make promised arrangements to take the girls to an exhibition of Greek art, and upon hearing this, Vivian Devern expressed so great an interest that he could not but be included in the outing.
“That was very well managed, to be sure,” commented Emma dryly when she and Elvira were alone.
“Do you think it was contrived?” asked the other innocently. ‘‘He seemed very interested in the ancients. He spoke very knowledgeably about Homer and Socrates—and he knew all the gods by name.”
“As would anyone with a classical education. I think he was bluffing!”
“But why? Oh!” Elvira’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Do you think he is a fortune hunter?” She gasped. “You know more of his financial position than I—” “Well, I’ve never heard of his part of the family in straightened circumstances—of course the Melvins are never more than able to manage.” A slow smile spread over her face as she considered her friend thoughtfully. “Perhaps he has formed a tendre for you,” she suggested teasingly.
“How exciting,” said Emma. “I must own to a little disappointment that so far no one has confessed to an overwhelming passion for me. I did expect at least one declaration of undying love, and the nearest I’ve come to it is Cecil Marmaduke’s purple and laurel leaf! ”
Elvira’s thoughtful expression deepened. “There was that exotic posy from Lord Devern,” she pointed out slowly.
“And forget-me-nots from Freddie,” her friend countered quickly.
“Not in the same class,” declared Elvira. “Oh, Em—Ju would be so annoyed!”
This brought up Emma’s head. “Your brother is not my guardian now,” she said.
“I know—but cannot you care for him in the slightest? It is really very odd, but over this summer I have become quite fond of him, where I used to think him a dead bore. Indeed, I seem to think kindly of most people nowadays.”
She paused, her expression far away, her thoughts so obviously elsewhere that Emma could not refrain from asking if Johnnie Gray was included in her kindly thoughts.
“Oh, yes,” was the simple reply, accompanied by a sunny smile. “I find him so kind and responsible—of course a soldier would have to be strong and resourceful. One feels so safe in his company. ... I like a man to be sure of himself and yet gallant.”
Emma restrained herself from commenting upon the obvious differences to be found between soldiers and poets, instead, agreeing that she, too, was looking forward to their educational outing.
The day chosen for the expedition was blustery and cold, heralding the arrival of autumn. However, this did not deter the ladies; Elvira happily arraying herself in a new pelisse of apricot velvet, while Emma, having consulted Lady Beau- vale upon the conventions attached to the wearing of black, was assured that half-mourning was acceptable and so was wearing a dark gray coat and bonnet with sweeping black ostrich plumes and a paler gray gown.
When the men waited upon them, Johnnie Gray was resplendent in his green regimentals, and Lord Devern sported a blue jacket and yellow buckskins of such magnificent cut that Emma lost all doubts about his wealth, instead acknowledging to herself that they were both handsome enough to make Elvira and herself the envy of other females.
Upon arriving at the exhibition rooms, the group found 185
themselves amid a crowd of people, some intent upon intellectual stimulus, others wishing both to see and be seen.
‘ ‘What a squeeze! ” exclaimed Elvira, grateful for the protection of Captain Gray’s arm.
“Everyone is here,” agreed Emma, nodding and smiling to friends and acquaintances. “Even the paragon—but who is her escort?” she asked, indicating the center of the room where Miss Plantagenet was holding court.
Elvira raised herself on tiptoe to view the small man who barely came to Jane Plantagenet’s shoulder, but who nevertheless hung avidly on her every word as she read from her brochure and indicated points of especial interest with a knowledgeable finger.
“Why, that’s Cecil Marmaduke,” she said.
“Well, I take that as very cool!” complained her friend in righteous indignation. “Only a week ago he was sending me flowers, and now I find he has already found himself another lady friend!”
As if aware of their gaze, Miss Plantagenet looked up and, meeting their eyes, bowed gravely before continuing her discourse.
“Are you out of favor?” inquired his lordship, puzzled. “Miss Plantagenet seems rather cool.”
“Emma took her to see Richard the Third!” Elvira told him, smiling wickedly.
“Bravo!” acknowledged Johnnie Gray.
“So . . . I take it that the expected announcement will not be forthcoming,” said Vivian Devern thoughtfully.
“I’d say Marmaduke’s ring is as good as on her finger,” murmured the rifleman, watching the attentions of the little man.
“Poor Ju,” drawled Lord Devern. “Pray give him my sympathies when next you see him.”
“I do not think him distraught,” Elvira said sharply.
“I think that Lord Devern was teasing,” Emma told her softly.
“Shrewd, Miss Beringer,” commented his lordship, speaking for her ears alone. “There is a particular statue in the far room which I wish you to see. I daresay the crowd will not be so great there—”
Emma was pleased to find that he was right. The farther room, although smaller, was almost empty of people, and she sank thankfully down on one of the seats provided for weary viewers. Gazing round, she found that the displayed exhibits consisted of rather unexceptional heads and vases.
“Where is the statue?” she asked.
Vivian Devern looked vague. “I think it must have been moved,” he told her.
Realizing that the non-existent statue had been a ploy to obtain her company, Emma raised her eyebrows and regarded her companion inquiringly.
“You are right,” he confessed at once with engaging candor as he seated himself beside her. “There never was a statue—I merely wished to have you to myself. To say that you have my admiration and respect,” he hurried on before she could speak. “And wish above all things that we could be friends.”
Rather gratified by this declaration, Emma looked on him kindly and even allowed him to take her gloved hand.
“Sir Julian— ” she murmured, thinking of the quarrel between the two men.
“Is no longer your guardian,” was the quick response as Lord Devern misunderstood her misgivings.
“No,” she agreed, “but he is still a dear friend. And I would do nothing to upset Lady Beauvale.”
“I would not ask it,” Lord Devern assured her. “I believe that Lady Beauvale can find it in her heart to feel a little kindness for me. And Ju was once my friend. . . . Dear Miss Beringer, you are a favorite with the Ley tons, I only ask that you use your influence—our quarrel began years ago. I much regret my youthful misdemeanors and wish them undone ... or forgiven.”
“I believe that lives were altered—and not for the better. ”
“I see you have already been told the tale. I will add nothing, except to ask you to believe that I
was not totally to blame. I was young and in love and thought that nothing else mattered. I thought we could survive the gossip and hostility. ... I was romantic enough to think that love would conquer all. Eleanor found that she needed approbation. ...”
Emma reflected that this was not precisely how she had interpreted the story told to her, but said nothing, accepting that everything had various sides to it, depending upon the viewer.
Lord Devern seemed to have finished his plea for aid and turned to other things, remarking lightly upon her state of half-mourning.
‘‘Lady Beauvale thought it quite acceptable—of course I shall still live quietly. I may accept small dinner parties but no balls or routes for a while, yet. ”
‘‘Do you intend to live in Hodge Hall?”
‘ ‘I should like to very much, but Lady Beauvale thinks me a little young to live alone—and of course it is rather cut off and remote.”
‘‘Is it closed up?”
Emma nodded. “My aunt managed with few servants, and those had grown old in her service. Sir Julian paid off all save the housekeeper and a handyman who are looking after the house for me.”
Lord Devern smiled at the unconsciously wistful note in her voice. “You need a husband,” he pointed out casually.
Emma raised startled eyes to his face but was saved from the need to reply by the arrival of Elvira and her escort.
“There you are! I almost believed you had gone home.”
“We would do nothing so reprehensible,” answered Vivian Devern, offering her his seat. ‘ ‘When do you return to your regiment?” he asked the soldier.
Only Emma noticed Elvira’s quick intake of breath and 188
the anxious glance she gave to Johnnie Gray as he answered the question.
“I have another four weeks on furlough, ’ ’ he said, his eyes falling as if by accident upon Elvira’s downcast face.
“This damned war,” Lord Devern emitted lightly.
“Just so,” agreed the other man, while Elvira dipped her head even lower and hid beneath the brim of her bonnet.
“It can’t go on much longer!” exclaimed her friend. “I cannot remember a time when we weren’t at war with Boney.”
“He’s met his match in General Wellesly,” Captain Gray assured her confidently. “Old Nosey is a better man than he is and will show him so, if only a confrontation could be arranged. As it is, we have most of his army over here as prisoners. If it goes on long enough, he’ll have no army left.”
Vivian Devern straightened abruptly, looking above the rifleman’s red head. “I believe the paragon approaches,” he said warningly, and with one accord, as if previously arranged, the others rose and made their way out of the other door and back onto the street.
That afternoon was Diana Beauvale’s “at home,” and knowing she would be busy with her callers, Emma had decided that no better time would present itself for her intended visit to Sergeant Rourk. Knowing that Johnnie Gray had promised to call with the loan of a book, she refused Elvira’s half-hearted offer to accompany her and set out mid- afternoon, when her absence would be masked by the influx of Lady Beauvale’s many acquaintances.
Her costume had given cause for thought; that of a lady in mourning would give rise to interest, but eventually she had decided that if she wore her dark gray pelisse and removed the black ostrich feathers from her bonnet, she would resemble nothing so much as a respectable governess going about her legitimate business.
And so she was clothed in drab respectability as she made her way to Sadler’s Wells Theater. One or two of the more discerning males eyed her with interest as she passed, but in general, few spared her more than a passing glance.
By good fortune she found Sergeant Rourk standing on the steps of the stage door, deep in thought, sucking the top of his silver-knobbed cane, bearing every sign of one in deepest gloom.
“Why, Sergeant,” she cried, struck by his attitude, “whatever is the matter?”
Looking up, he gazed at her blankly for a moment, before his face lit up with the dazed expression of one who was confronted by a miracle. “By the Faith, if it isn’t Miss Be- ringer!” he cried, leaping forward to seize her hands. “A gift from the gods—the answer to my prayers!”
Rather taken aback by such an enthusiastic welcome, Emma showed her surprise, and, recovering, Tom Rourk looked at her more closely, taking in her dark clothing.
“Have you lost someone close to you?” he asked contritely. “And me only thinking of my own troubles and how, maybe, you could help out.”
“My mother’s aunt,” Emma told him. “I only met her once, but we were friends, and I’m sorry she is dead.” She looked at him more closely, noting the scarcely concealed air of anxiety. “What is troubling you?”
The sergeant clutched his head with a gesture worthy of Edmund Kean himself. “Our benefit is to take place tomorrow night!”
“Yes. I saw the notices—that is what brought me here.” “Oh, merciful providence! Guardian angel, thank you!” Beginning to have a suspicion of what was coming, Emma looked at him severely. “Sergeant Rourk,” she said, “I fail to see why my presence should fill you with such happiness.”
Replacing his look of exultation with that of hopeful entreaty, he took her arm. “There is a coffeehouse a few doors
along,” he said. “Let me offer you a cup of refreshment, and we can talk the while.”
Standing her ground, Emma inquired if it was respectable and only on receiving his affirmative allowed herself to be led there. Once inside and seated at a discrete arrangement of high-backed settle and narrow table which presented an area of privacy, she inhaled the pleasant aroma of coffee and chocolate while examining her surroundings.
“Well, Sergeant,” she said at last, when he seemed unwilling to speak. “What have you to say to me?”
Tom Rourk looked quickly at her and away again, making a great show of taking his handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe the coffee from his lips.
“A favor, Miss B,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t ask, but matters are desperate—my Molly has broken her leg. She vows that she’ll play the princess come what may—but whoever heard of a princess in plaster? It wouldn’t do at all. ” He looked at her with an expression of entreaty. “Dear, Miss Beringer, could you find it in your heart to repay the favor I did you in Portsmouth and play the princess for me? We’ll be ruined if we miss this benefit.”
Chapter Fourteen
Emma choked into her coffee, and rising to his feet, the sergeant reached over the table to thump her back.
“It isn’t a breeches part,” he reminded her earnestly. “You wouldn’t have to show your legs.”
Red-faced and with streaming eyes, Emma stared at him, struggling for breath.
“I wouldn’t ask, Miss B, but it’s urgent,” the actor went on. “We need the benefit—of course Mrs. R is in the full flush of womanhood, but neither of us is getting younger, and with a bit of money, we could set up business. An acting school, we thought, with lodgings for the folk who tread the boards ... all very tasteful and nicely done. My Molly fancies presiding over a salon, you see.”
He looked at Emma so hopefully that she felt called upon to agree. ‘ ‘I am sure she would do it very well—’ ’ she began, intending to refuse gently, but was interrupted by the man opposite.
At her words he had brightened, seizing her hand and pumping it enthusiastically up and down. “You’ll do it, then?” he cried, totally misunderstanding. “Oh, what a friend! Miss B, you’re an angel, that’s what you are. ” Flinging money on the table, he pulled her to her feet, almost pushing her along in his eagerness to leave the coffeehouse. “Come and tell my ladywife yourself, Miss Beringer. She will be overwhelmed, I can tell you. ”
Somehow, Emma found herself back at the theater and 192
being urged up a narrow flight of dark, twisting stairs until they arrived at a heavy green-painted door, which bore the signs of many hasty entries, being much chipped and marked
.
Sergeant Rourk flung it open with a fine gesture. “My dear,” he declaimed, pushing Emma ahead, “look who we have here.”
Molly Rourk, who had been lying full-length on a dilapidated sofa bed, raised her head and, recognizing her visitor, moaned faintly, making little shooing movements with her hands. “The silk ear!” she groaned and sank back.
Her husband sent Emma a conciliatory glance. “Miss Emma, my love, has agreed to play the princess for us,” he announced, making Emma feel like a bone being offered to a temperamental dog.
Molly Rourk opened her eyes. “Have you asked Doll Harper?” she asked.
The sergeant shook his head. “Not to be found.”
“Amelia Bell?”
“She’s too old and scrawny—whoever heard of a princess being played by a six-foot beanpole?”
“Sally Buckingham?” Mrs. Rourk persisted.
“Out of town.” Tom Rourk answered shortly, growing impatient. “There’s no one, I tell you, Molly gal. It’s Miss B or no benefit!”
Growing tired of being discussed as if she were not there, Emma made a movement drawing attention to herself. Molly Rourk gazed at her speculatively before giving a brilliant smile and throwing wide her arms in an expansive gesture.
‘ ‘Dear child, ’ ’ she cried thrillingly. “A scepter in our hour of need! A veritable angel of mercy. How kind! How brave! How valiant!”
“I’m really not at all—” Emma murmured, floundering under the flood of adjectives.
“Nonsense!” cried the actress. “You will be magnificent, a veritable Sarah Siddons. Did I not always describe you so?”