Johnny Ludlow Second Series Part 43

She paused before answering, taken aback by his looks, as she described it afterwards, for he put her in mind of Sir Peter. It was as nice a face as Sir Peter's used to be, clean-shaved, except for the light whiskers: and if those were not Sir Peter's kindly blue eyes, why, her memory failed her. But the dress puzzled Mrs. Layne: he wore a dark-blue frock-coat and grey trousers, a white waistcoat with a thin gold chain pa.s.sed across it and a drooping seal: all very nice and gentlemanly certainly, but quite plain. What she had expected to see the heir attired in, Mrs. Layne never afterwards settled with herself: perhaps purple and miniver.

"I beg your pardon sir," she said, speaking at length, "but I think you must be Sir Geoffry?"

"Yes, I am Sir Geoffry."

"Lord bless me!" cried Mrs. Layne.

She told him who she was, adding, as an apology for being found there, that her ladys.h.i.+p had invited her and her girls, and wouldn't take a denial. Geoffry held out his arm cordially to lead her to the tent, and glanced behind at the "girls," remembering what his mother had said to him of one of them: "a sweet-looking young woman, Geoffry, poor Layne's daughter, quite an elegant girl." Yes, she was sweet-looking and elegant also, Geoffry decided. The elder one was like her mother, short, stout, and--Geoffry could not help seeing it--commonplace. He told Mrs. Layne that he could remember her husband still: he spoke of a ride the doctor had taken him, seated before him on his horse; and altogether in that short minute or two won, by his true affability, the heart of the doctor's widow.

The tent was crowded to confusion. Waiters were running about, and there was much rattle of knives and forks. Sir Geoffry could find only two places anywhere; at which he seated Mrs. Layne and her daughter Elizabeth, according to precedence.

"I will find you a place in the other tent, if you will come with me,"

he said to Mary.

She wished to refuse. She had a suspicion that the other tent was the one for the "lords and ladies," people who were altogether above her.

But Sir Geoffry was holding up the canvas for her to pa.s.s out, and she was too timid to disobey. He walked by her side almost in silence, speaking a courteous word or two only, to put her at her ease. The band was playing "The Roast Beef of Old England."

But the other tent seemed in worse confusion as far as crowding went.

Some one turned on her seat to accost Sir Geoffry: a slight, upright girl, with finely-carved features of that creamy white rarely seen, and a haughty expression in her very light eyes.

"You are being waited for, Geoffry. Don't you know that you preside?"

"No; nonsense!" he answered. "There's to be nothing of that sort, Rachel; no presiding. I am going to walk about and look out for stray people. Some of the strangers will get nothing, if they are not seen after. Could you make room for one by you?"

"Who is it?" she asked.

Sir Geoffry said a word in her ear, and she moved a few inches higher up. He stepped back to Mary Layne. She had been looking at the young lady, who was so richly dressed--in some thin material of s.h.i.+mmering blue and lace--and who was so utterly at her ease as to be sitting without her bonnet, which she had put at her feet.

"We have made a place for you," said Sir Geoffry. "I fear you will be a little crowded. Miss Layne, Rachel."

Mary waited to thank him before taking it. Her cheeks were full of blushes, her soft dark eyes went out to his. She felt ashamed that he should take so much trouble for her, and strove to say so. Sir Geoffry held her hand while he answered, his own eyes looking back again.

But Mary sat for some minutes before any one came to wait on her. The young lady whom Sir Geoffry had called Rachel was busy with her own plate, and did not observe. Presently, she looked round.

"Dear me! what are they about? Field!" she imperatively called to the butler, who was pa.s.sing. He turned at once.

"My lady?"

"Have the goodness to attend here," said Lady Rachel, indicating the vacant s.p.a.ce before Miss Layne. "This young lady has had nothing."

"So I really am amidst the lords and ladies," thought Mary, as the butler presented her with a card of the dishes, made out in French, and inquired what she would be pleased to take. She was inexperienced and shy; and did not know where to look or what to say. Lady Rachel spoke to her once or twice, and was civilly distant: and so the half-hour was got over. When Sir Geoffry's health was proposed by Lord L., the young baronet suddenly appeared in his rightful place at the head of the table. He thanked them all very heartily in a few words; and said he hoped he _should_ live long, as they had all just been wis.h.i.+ng him, live that he might repay his dear mother one t.i.the of the sacrifices she had made, and the love she had lavished on him.

The cheers broke forth as he finished, his eyes wet with the sincerity of his feeling, the music burst out with a crash, "See the conquering hero comes," and Mary Layne felt every nerve thrill within her; as if she would faint with the excess of unwonted emotion.

[_Mr. Duffham's Diary._]

_June 2nd._--The rejoicings are well over, and Sir Geoffry Chava.s.se is his own master. In law, at any rate; but it strikes me he will never know any will but his mother's. It's not that he possesses none of his own--rather the contrary, I fancy; but in his filial love and reverence he merges it in hers. It is, on the one hand, good to see; on the other, one can but fancy his ideal of the fifth commandment is somewhat exaggerated. Lady Chava.s.se on her part seems bound up in him. To him there is no sign of imperiousness, no a.s.sertion of self-will: and, so far as can be seen, she does not _exact_ deference. "Geoffry, would you wish this?" she says. "Geoffry, would you like the other? My darling Geoffry, don't you think it might be well to do so-and-so?" No. It is a case of genuine filial respect and love; and one can but honour Lady Chava.s.se for have gained it.

My lady has condescended to be almost confidential with me. The illness of her maid has been a long and serious one, and I have had to be a good deal at the Grange. "Sir Geoffry is engaged to be married, Mr. Duffham,"

she said to me yesterday, when our conversation had turned--as it often does turn--on Sir Geoffry. I could not help showing some surprise: and, one word leading to another, I soon grasped the whole case. Not so much by what she directly said, as by the habit I have of putting two-and-two together.

Conspicuous amidst the guests at the _fete_ on the 20th of May, was Lady Rachel Derreston: a cold, self-possessed girl, with strictly cla.s.sical features, and the palest blue eyes I ever saw. It would be a very handsome face--and indeed _is_ so--but for its cold, proud expression; she is the daughter of one of Lady Chava.s.se's sisters, who married the Earl of Derreston, and is now a very slenderly-portioned widow with some expensive daughters. It is to this Lady Rachel that Sir Geoffry is engaged. The engagement is not of his own seeking, or of hers; the two mothers settled it between them when the children were young; they have been brought up to look on each other as future husband and wife, and have done so as a matter-of-course. Neither of them, by what I can gather, has the slightest intention, or wish, to turn aside from fulfilling the contract: they will ratify it in just the same business manner and with the same calm feelings that they would take the lease of a house. It is not their fault: they should not have been led into it. Human nature is cross and contrary as a crab: had the two young people been thrown together now for the first time, and been warned _not_ to fall in love with each other, the chances are they would have tumbled headlong into it before the week was out: as it is, they like each other as cousins, or brother and sister, but they'll never get beyond that. _I_ can see. The two old sisters have a private understanding with each other--and my young Lady Rachel dutifully falls in with it--that after the marriage Lady Chava.s.se shall still live and rule at the Grange. Indeed she implied it when she let fall the words, perhaps unthinkingly--"Geoffry would never marry to put me out of my home here, Mr. Duffham." And I am sure that he never would.

Lady Rachel is here still. I often see her and Sir Geoffry together, indoors or out; but I have never yet seen a symptom of courts.h.i.+p on either side. They call each other "Geoffry" and "Rachel;" and are as indifferently familiar as brother and sister. That they will be sufficiently happy with a quiet, moonlight kind of happiness, is almost sure. I find that I am not at liberty to mention this engagement abroad: and that's why I say my lady has grown confidential with me.

_June 29th._--Wilkins continues very ill; and it puts my lady about amazingly. The maid who has been taking Wilkins's duties, Hester Picker, is a country girl of the locality, Goody Picker's daughter; her services being as different from those of the easy, experienced Wilkins, as darkness is from light. "She manages my hair atrociously," cried my lady to me, one day, in her vexation; "she attempted to write a note for me in answer to inquiries for the character of my late page, and the spelling was so bad it could not be sent."

Lady Rachel has left. Sir Geoffry escorted her to her home (near Bath), stayed two days there, and came back again. And glad to be back, evidently: he does not care to be long separated from his mother. The more I see of this young fellow, the more I like him. He has no bad habits; does not smoke or swear: reads, rides, drives, loves flowers, and is ever ready to do a good turn for rich or poor. "You appear to have grown up quite strong, Sir Geoffry," I said to him to-day when we were in the greenhouse, and he leaped on a ledge to do something or other to the broken cord of the window. "Oh, quite," he answered. "I think I am stronger and heartier than most men: and I owe thanks for it to my mother. It was not only my health of body she cared for and watched over, but of mind. She taught me to love rational pursuits; she showed me how to choose the good, and reject the evil: it is she alone who has made me what I am."

_July 5th._--Mary Layne is going to the Grange as companion to Lady Chava.s.se. "Humble companion," as my lady takes care to put it. It has been brought about in this way. Wilkins is slightly improving: but it will be months before she can resume her duties about Lady Chava.s.se: and my lady has at length got this opinion out of me. "Five or six months!"

she exclaimed in dismay. "But it is only what I have lately suspected.

Mr. Duffham, I have been thinking that I must take a companion; and now this has confirmed it. A humble companion, who will not object to do my hair on state occasions, and superintend Picker in tr.i.m.m.i.n.g my dresses, especially the lace; and who will write notes for me when I desire it, and read to me when Sir Geoffry's not here; and sit with me if I wish it. She wouldn't dine with us, of course; but I might sometimes let her sit down to luncheon. In short, what I want is a well-educated, lady-like young woman, who will make herself useful. Do you happen to know of one?"

I mentioned Mary Layne. She has been wis.h.i.+ng not to return to the heavy work and confinement of a school, where she had to sit up late, night after night, correcting exercises, and touching up drawings by gas-light. My lady caught at it at once. "Mary Layne! the very thing. I like the look of the girl much, Mr. Duffham; and of course she won't be above doing anything required of her: Layne, the apothecary's daughter, cannot be called a gentlewoman in position, you know."

She forgot I was an apothecary also; I'll give her that credit. But this is a specimen of the way my lady's exclusive spirit peeps out.

And so it is settled. And if Miss Mary had been suddenly offered a position in the Royal household, she could not have thought more of it.

"Mr. Duffham, I will try my very best to satisfy Lady Chava.s.se," says she to me, in an ecstasy; "I will do anything and everything required of me: who am I, that I should be above it?" And by the glistening of her sweet brown eyes, and the rose-blush on her cheeks, it would seem that she fancies she is going into fairy-land. Well, the Grange is a nice place: and she is to have thirty guineas a-year. At the last school she had twenty pounds: at the first ten.

[_End of the Diary for the present._]

Miss Layne entered the Grange with trepidation. She had never been inside the house, and at first thought it was fairy-land realized and that she was out of place in it. A broad flight of three or four steps led up to the wide entrance-door; the brilliant colours from the painted windows shone on the mosaic pavement of the hall; on the right were the grand drawing-rooms; on the left the dining-room and Sir Geoffry's library. Behind the library, going down a step or two was a low, shady apartment, its gla.s.s doors opening to a small gra.s.s plat, round which flowers were planted; and beyond it lay the fragrant herbary. This little room was called the garden-room; and on the morning of Miss Layne's arrival, after she had taken off her things, Hester Picker (who thought almost as much of the old surgeon's daughter as she did of my lady) curtsyed her into it, and said it was to be Miss Layne's sitting-room, when she was not with my lady.

Mary Layne looked around. She thought it charming. It had an old Turkey carpet, and faded red chairs, and a shabby checked cloth on the table, with other ancient furniture; but the subdued light was grateful after the garish July sun, and a sweetness came in from the herbs and flowers.

Mary stood, wondering what she had to do first, and not quite daring to sit down even on one of the old red chairs. The Grange was the Grange, and my lady was my lady; and they were altogether above the sphere in which she had been brought up. She had a new lilac muslin dress on, fresh and simple; her smooth brown hair had a bit of lilac ribbon in it; and she looked as pretty and ladylike as a girl can look. Standing at the back, there beyond the able, was she, when Sir Geoffry walked in at the gla.s.s doors, his light summer coat thrown back, and a heap of small paper packets in his hands, containing seeds. At first he looked astonished: not remembering her.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up, as he took off his straw hat. "Miss Mary Layne, I think. I did not know you at the moment. My mother said she expected you to-day."

He came round to her with outstretched hand, and then put a chair for her, just as though she had been a d.u.c.h.ess--or Lady Rachel Derreston.

Mary did not take the chair: she felt strange in her new home, and as yet very timid.

"I am not sure what Lady Chava.s.se would wish me to do," she ventured to say, believing it might be looked upon as next door to a crime to be seen idle, in a place where she was to receive thirty guineas a-year.

"There appears to be no work here."

"Get a book, and read!" cried Sir Geoffry. "I'll find you one as soon as I have put up these seeds. A box of new novels has just come from town.

I hope you will make yourself at home with us, and be happy," he added, in his kindness.

"Thank you, sir; I am sure I shall."

He was putting up the seeds, when Lady Chava.s.se entered. She had a way of taking likes and dislikes, and she never scrupled to show either. On this first day, it seemed that she did not know how to make enough of Mary. She chose to forget that she was only to be the humble companion, and treated her as a guest. She carried her in to take luncheon with herself and Sir Geoffry; she made her play and sing; she showed her the drawing-rooms and the flower-gardens, and finally took her out in the barouche. She certainly did not ask her in to dinner, but said she should expect her to come to the drawing-room afterwards, and spend the evening. And Miss Layne, not ignorant of the customs obtaining in great houses, dressed herself for it in her one evening dress of white spotted muslin, and changed the lilac ribbon in her hair for blue.

So that, you perceive, the girl was inaugurated at the Grange as a young lady, almost as an equal, and not as a servant--as Lady Chava.s.se's true opinion would have cla.s.sed her. That was mistake the first. For it led Sir Geoffry to make a companion of Miss Layne; that is, to treat her as though she belonged to their order; which otherwise he certainly would not have done. Had Miss Layne been a.s.signed her true place at first--the place that Lady Chava.s.se meant her to fill, that of an inferior and humble dependent--Sir Geoffry, out of simple respect to the girl and to his mother, would have kept his distance.

As the time pa.s.sed on they grew great friends. Lady Chava.s.se retained her liking for Mary, and saw no harm in the growing intimacy with Sir Geoffry. That was mistake the second. Both of them were drifting into love; but Lady Chava.s.se dreamt it not. The social gulf that spread itself between Sir Geoffry Chava.s.se, of Chava.s.se Grange, and Mary Layne, daughter of the late hard-worked village apothecary, was one that Lady Chava.s.se would have said (had she been asked to think about it) could never be bridged over: and for this very reason she saw no danger in the intercourse. She regarded Mary Layne as of a totally different caste from themselves, and never supposed but Sir Geoffry did so too.

And so time went on, on the wings of love. There were garden walks together and moonlight saunterings; meetings in my lady's presence, meetings without it. Sir Geoffry, going in and out of the garden-parlour at will, as he had been accustomed to do--for it was where all kinds of things belonging to him were kept: choice seeds, his fis.h.i.+ng-rods, his collection of b.u.t.terflies--would linger there by the hour together, talking to Mary at her work. And, before either of them was conscious of the danger, they had each pa.s.sed into a dream that changed everything about them to Paradise.