by Grant Allen
Indeed, the situation was one which touched profoundly in different ways every leading chord in his complex nature. The man’s pride as well as his virility was deeply concerned. That his Duchess should still live and move in the same society as a man, or two men, with whom (as he conceived the matter), she had once carried on a vulgar flirtation, as a social inferior, in a London lodging-house, wounded him to the quick in his tenderest instincts. How could he, a Montgomery of Powysland, a scion of the oldest and noblest stock in the whole of wild Wales, ever have exposed himself before all the world in such a humiliating position? When he married Linda Amberley across sea in New York, he understood, of course, that she was a girl who had risen; one expects all that, naturally, when one agrees to sell one’s title and coronet to an American heiress for prompt cash; but then, she was beautiful, she was graceful, she was well educated, she was well read, she was intellectual, she was a lady, and he supposed he would never any further be troubled with her friends or acquaintances, good, bad, or indifferent, except, to be sure, her brother, Cecil, who was an American millionaire, and, as such, respectable, even if he hadn’t been, as he was, absolutely presentable and a genius also. It had never occurred to the Duke’s mind, when Linda spoke of having lived in London, that she had come into contact at all with the sort of people one would be likely to meet with in his own society. He had taken it for granted their orbits lay in different planes. And now to find that she had kept a lodging-house in Bloomsbury, where Basil Maclaine, the greatest gossip-monger in Pall Mall, and Douglas Harrison, brother of that clever and sarcastic young man who was member for South Hampstead, had actually been her inmates — oh, it was too, too horrible!
The blow to his pride was a very bitter one. If he had loved her once for six weeks, he was beginning now to be ashamed of her, and before many months were out he might easily hate her.
Basil Maclaine, of all men! That wriggling snake, that society ferret, who wormed his way up in the world by getting in the thin edge of the wedge here, and using it as a lever to raise himself further there; who knew all the small talk of all the tea-tables in Belgravia; who retailed slanderous gossip of the clubs in ladies’ boudoirs, and carried candid tittle-tattle of the boudoirs to the smoking-rooms of the clubs. It was hateful, hateful! Basil Maclaine, beloved of dowagers and welcomed of old maids, who knew every spiteful story in town, and who studied the society papers with diligent care, as expositors study a Scripture text, to get out of their words every hint or innuendo! And to think that this man had it in his power now to go round all London with a sneer in his sleeve, and tell the whole world that laughable story how he had jilted the Duchess of Powysland himself, when she waited at table on him in a common lodging-house! The bare idea of such a possibility ahead was gall and wormwood to the last of the Montgomeries.
If only Linda had told him when he first met her in New York! She ought to have told him; but she had kept it back from him. And the worst of it was, he felt in his own heart she had kept it back, not of malice prepense, nor from any mean and deceitful desire to conceal it, but simply and solely because it meant so little to her that it never occurred to her at all to explain it in full. The whole thing seemed so simple and ordinary to her mind that she hardly thought it worth wasting a second word upon. How little she could enter, with her bourgeois ideas, into the exalted feelings of a Montgomery of Powysland!
Whoever a Montgomery marries he ennobles and raises at once to his own rank. The Duke wouldn’t have been ashamed had he married a flower-girl. It wasn’t that he minded. It was this hateful Maclaine man. That the fellow should be able to go about town whispering how he had refused as beneath him the very girl whom a Montgomery married — there was the sting of it. That was the point that the Duke could never get over.
As a matter of fact, of course, Basil Maclaine was far too wise to say anything to anybody about Linda’s former occupation in life. Linda herself was much more likely to commit that simple indiscretion. Basil saw at a glance, in his worldly-wise way, how greatly it would redound to his own glory and credit to have it generally believed that he had stood on terms of family intimacy with the Duchess of Powysland before her marriage; and he certainly wasn’t going to throw away the kudos of such an immediate connection with a ducal house for the mere gratification of retailing a petty piece of boarding-house gossip. On the contrary, his cue was now to magnify the Amberleys to the very best of his ability; to explain how he had known that distinguished engineer well when he was engaged in perfecting his great inventions in his laboratory in London; and how, owing to an unsuspected change of name (connected presumably with inheritance of property and the Heralds’ Office), he had failed to recognise them at first as the dear old friends of his youth when the announcement of the Duke’s marriage was made in England.
Indeed, in a week or two after the meeting at the Simpsons’, Basil Maclaine, by sheer hard talking, had succeeded in revolutionizing opinion at all the clubs about the American heiress, who, it was now generally understood, was really a lady of gentle English birth, well known to Maclaine, and Hubert Harrison, and lots of other people in London society, whose brother had merely gone over to America in order the better to float his valuable patents, which had originally been designed, perfected, and worked out in the dignified repose of his English study. The general impression society carried away at last from Basil’s vague talk amounted to an indefinite notion that Linda was probably the outcome of some snug country rectory, in a midland shire, and that Cecil, her brother, the inventor of the famous Amberley motor, and the owner of endless mines or ranches in Bret-Harteland or elsewhere, had in all likelihood come out as senior wrangler and Smith’s prizeman at Cambridge in some forgotten decade. So much may be done without violation of the strict truth, by deft suggestion.
The only thing that bothered Basil in this matter was the obvious difficulty of making the best of his acquaintance with Linda. He could hardly find many opportunities of meeting the Duchess now; and without them, his proud boast of previous acquaintance would be worth to him but little in the eyes of society. However, all things come to him who knows how to wait — even an answer to his letters to the present writer; and Basil Maclaine’s opportunity came at last at Sabine Venables’ wedding.
It was a splendid function, of course. That goes without saying. Old Affability, having once adopted Hubert Harrison as his second best choice for Sabine’s husband, was determined nobody else in the world should ever suspect he was less than amply satisfied with his daughter’s selection. So he made the most of Hubert’s Parliamentary position, and his own big friends, and succeeded in producing ‘a very smart affair, indeed,’ as all society said of it at their tea-tables that evening. Everybody was there, the Powyslands included. Foreign ambassadors congratulated the bride; literature, science, and art smiled responsive on the bridegroom; and high finance stood in a solid phalanx to see the member for South Hampstead properly tied to one-half of the famous Venables inheritance. And when all was over, and people lounged about in the rooms after the breakfast, while the bride was putting on her going-away dress, Basil Maclaine found a chance at last to stroll up, as if by accident, and engage in conversation with Linda, Duchess of Powysland.
From the far corner of the room, where he stood talking lightly to a bejewelled old dowager, the Duke kept his keen eye fixed firmly on Linda. He had been silently vigilant and suspicious of late; and what was worse, Linda knew it. She saw for herself that her husband was watching her. Now, though she loved him still as much as she had ever done, Linda was the very last woman in the world to endure being spied upon. She must be free, she must be individual, she must be herself and spontaneous, come what might of it. And, besides, her womanly pride was at stake here. Not for worlds would she have let Basil Maclaine see that she shunned him or was afraid to meet him. So she held out her hand with all the old frankness and cordiality, in spite of her husband’s uneasy glances; and she kept Basil talking there for half an hour, to his immense delight, w
ithout one sign of the wound he had so cruelly inflicted upon her. Basil himself was in the seventh heaven. The Duchess had talked to him familiarly about Cecil and his plans like an intimate friend, and all the world around, straining its eager ears, had overheard with interest many significant scraps of their intimate conversation. Nay, they had even learned that he could venture to chaff a Duchess.
Ah, how altered their positions were from those good old times when he had felt hurt at the bare idea of Linda Figgins being considered good enough for him! And now he was proud she should single him out at Sabine’s wedding for half an hour’s small-talk. Nay, more; as he looked at her in her magnificent dress and her queenly beauty, he felt again, as he had felt that night after the Simpsons’ party, that he was really in love with her.
As he looked and talked, looked and laughed, looked and admired, looked and listened, the feeling deepened on him. Ever deepened and deepened. He was over head and ears in love with Linda now. Oh, what a mistake he had made in not marrying Linda! To think she might once have been his — that queenly woman; willingly his; gladly his; and he had been fool enough, mad enough, insane enough, to reject her! What could he ever have been made of? Flesh and blood, or adamant? Why, as a woman alone, she was matchless, matchless. Such eyes, such lips, such a bust, such a figure! And when she warmed up with the conversation, and answered him back quickly with her ready wit, held her stately head erect, and smiled at him proudly, he cursed himself in his heart for his foolish blindness. So potent are diamonds and coronets in opening one’s eyes to the real inner worth of unsullied womanhood!
And this was the Linda who had folded the tablecloth, queenly even then, with himself to hold the other end, in the lodgings at Clandon Street!
Douglas Harrison, relieved at last from his duties as his brother’s best man, and wandering away for awhile from those attentive bridesmaids, looked into Basil’s face as he passed once or twice with a bitter smile. It was impossible not to see, from the light in Basil’s eyes and the open show of Basil’s pearly teeth, that now, at last, too late, he was really in love with Linda.
And somebody else saw it too. The Duke of Powysland, away over in his corner, tied helplessly to his Dowager, and smiling his stereotyped society smile, interposed a mechanical ‘Yes’ or an automatic ‘No, really,’ at random every now and again; but he was fretting and fuming inwardly. He could see Basil Maclaine was talking with unusual animation for many minutes together to the beautiful Duchess. He could see the Duchess was talking with unusual frankness to that unmitigated cur, Basil Maclaine. All the passionate jealousy of the Montgomery nature kindled fiercely within him at the hateful sight. ‘If this happens again,’ he said to himself through his clenched teeth — smiling cat-wise all the while at his Dowager as he said it— ‘I shall make them both pay for it, and pay for it dear. She shall never disgrace the Montgomeries for nothing.’
CHAPTER XXXII.
A CRISIS.
The Duchess drove home alone. Of late, her husband had seldom accompanied her, and this afternoon, he said, he was going down to the club — to attend a committee meeting on an important matter. Committee meetings occurred with abnormal frequency at the Die and Hazard, Linda fancied, but she made no comment. She was waking up fast to the reality of her position. In a moment of weakness she had yielded to a man’s passing passion for herself and lasting desire for the Amberley millions; and now she was beginning to pay the penalty. Henceforth, she felt, she must lead a life apart. Thank heaven! at least, she was strong enough to bear it.
At Onslow Gardens, she was told, as soon as she entered the door, a young person was waiting to see her grace. ‘I think,’ the gorgeous ducal footman added deferentially, ‘it’s the young person who was recommended to your grace last week for a place as lady’s-maid.’
‘Send her up to my room,’ Linda said with her imperturbable manner. ‘I’ve half an hour to spare, and then I must go out to that East-End mission meeting.’
The gorgeous flunkey bowed and disappeared. Two minutes later the young person came up and entered the Duchess’s room with a noiseless tread. She was a delicate and extremely modest-looking girl of twenty-five or thereabouts, in a plain dark dress and a very neat, almost Quakerish bonnet. Her voice was soft and low as she said ‘Good-morning, your grace,’ in answer to Linda’s greeting; and the moment she appeared, Linda had some vague recollection of having seen her before, though where exactly it might have been she couldn’t just then remember. But those narrow coils of back hair, plaited with a perfectly Puritan precision and trimness, struck her somehow as strangely familiar. The young person was slight but distinctly pretty, and she gave her name, when Linda asked for it, as Elizabeth Woodward.
‘Where have I met you before?’ Linda inquired sharply, turning her full frank eyes upon the rather shrinking lady’s-maid.
The girl looked her back in the face with a scrutinizing glance almost as keen as her own. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen your grace till this moment,’ she answered confidently. ‘I have a very good eye for faces; when I’ve seen a face once I never forget it, and your grace has features one couldn’t easily mistake, either.’
‘Curious,’ Linda went on, searching her memory in vain. ‘I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere, though I can’t recollect where. And I, too, have a very good eye for faces.’
The girl smiled a pleasant, graceful smile. ‘You may have seen me somewhere that I’ve been in a place,’ she answered respectfully, but very frankly. ‘I’ve been maid in several good houses in town where your grace is likely to have visited the ladies.’
Linda was taken at once with Elizabeth Woodward’s appearance and manner, the girl was so free from the habitual servility of the trained upper servant; so she interjected at once with her customary frankness, ‘Oh dear no! It’s not likely to have been that. I’ve hardly ever visited at any big houses in England till quite lately — since I married, I mean; and my recollection is rather of having seen you somewhere when I was in London before, at least two or three years ago. However, it doesn’t matter. What was your last place, and have you brought your character?’
When it came to character, Elizabeth Woodward’s record was so exceptionally good, not to say immaculate, that Linda, after glancing at the papers she brought, had no hesitation in immediately engaging her. She had lived, it seemed, in ‘all the best families,’ and was recommended by all as a perfect paragon of upper domestic virtue. But what specially attracted Linda was not the recommendations, but the girl’s own quiet and lady-like manner, as well as her perfect freedom from servants’-hall affectations. Self-respecting herself, Linda liked to see self-respect in others. She would have been incapable of passing on anyone that strange and inhuman criticism that they were ‘too independent.’ She hated the new-born necessity for having a maid at all: nothing but the absolute needs of her position could ever have reconciled her to that constant presence of another woman in her own private room. It sinned against her sense of the dignity of womanhood. Before she was rich, she had never been accustomed to such continual attendance; and she regretted her freedom so much now that she could never quietly submit to the slavery of the upper servants. But Elizabeth Woodward seemed so much the best specimen of her class Linda had yet seen, that she felt she could endure this woman better than any other. So in less than ten minutes the new lady’s-maid was duly engaged, and had made all needful arrangements about coming into residence that very evening.
‘One more point before you go,’ Linda said, as the girl was turning to leave the room. ‘You’re usually called Woodward, aren’t you — by your surname alone, I mean: just so, “Woodward”?’
‘Yes, your grace, that’s how my ladies generally address me,’ the girl answered, smiling.
‘Well, I don’t like that way,’ Linda went on, with a quiet little nod. ‘I’m too democratic for such distinctions. It grates upon me to hear a woman addressed by her surname just like a man. We don’t do it to our friends, and I don’t know why we sh
ould do it to those who wait upon us. I shall call you plain Elizabeth.’
‘Thank you, your grace. I like it much better, and I quite agree with you.’
Linda smiled her acquiescence. This new maid pleased her. So few servants would have had the boldness to venture upon agreeing with her. ‘And stop — just one other thing,’ she added, calling her back a second time from the half-open door. ‘You and I understand one another, I think, Elizabeth. You must call me “your grace” before the other people in the house. I’m afraid the Duke wouldn’t like it, you see, if you didn’t — but alone with me in my room here, if you must call me anything, call me simply Duchess. You follow exactly what I mean, don’t you?’
‘Perfectly, Duchess. And I shall remember to do so.’
Linda was pleased once more at the girl’s quick apprehension of her wishes and ready acquiescence in her unusual request. If there was anything on earth she hated, it was an animated machine, and Elizabeth Woodward was certainly not mechanical. ‘We shall get on very well together, I can see,’ the Duchess said, with a nod and a smile. ‘We know each other already.’