Читать книгу Boundless Water - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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Bleachley Hall, the seat of the Cowleys, lay a full two miles beyond Haslemere, and was situate almost in the centre of the wild heath land, miles from the high road; a fine but gloomy house, empty half the year when the family were in town, and not maintained at any period with the opulence that distinguished Ribblestone Manor. The Cowleys had not been on the land for generations, as had the Ribblestones; their wealth lay in the north, and Bleachley Hall had been bought only by the present owner's grandfather.

They were fashionable, gay people, and could on occasion be magnificent; their balls were the diversions of the neighbourhood, the more so that they did not distinguish the gentility with so fine an eye as Mrs. Muschamp or Sir Francis, and so permitted people across their threshold that the Manor House and Muschamp ignored.

At this ball that Serena Fowkes came to in her mother's wedding dress, half the country-side were gathered. It was a clear, frosty night, the terraces were illuminated, the house was vivid with a thousand candles; a number of quality from London were staying at Bleachley Hall, and Bernardine Muschamp was there, with the little following of witty ladies and ambitious gentlemen with whose company she surrounded and softened her wealthy independence.

Within an alcove for cards that opened from the great hall where the dancing took place, Margaret Cowley stood beside her mother, who sat at a little buhl table slowly fanning herself and watching her guests. Mother and daughter had the same frank, fair face, the same straight figure, the same modest air of the great lady, the same candid smile; the likeness showed charmingly in them as the younger bent her face to the elder and touched her tenderly on the shoulder. Margaret wore a pink satin sacque, a blue hoop embroidered with wreaths of silk flowers, a white petticoat shot with silver, and a long lace scarf; round her loosely arranged brown curls lay a coronal of white and green velvet roses; the elder lady wore pale violet silks and fine diamonds.

"Are you tired, madam?" asked Margaret.

"No, dear, but I am glad to sit still."

As she spoke the music ended, and the two looked across the ball-room.

The object their eyes fell on was that which every one else was looking at: Serena Fowkes in her old-fashioned white dress resting on the arm of Francis Ribblestone.

Mrs. Cowley put up her glass.

"Margaret, why did he bid us invite that girl?"

"Because he was sorry for her, Mother."

"My dear! The creature is a beauty."

"Yes," said Margaret.

"He said he thought she would marry young Holt of Langley's, and I asked him a-purpose. Why don't he come?"

Margaret smiled.

"How can I tell, ma'am? Maybe he was shy."

"Francis hath danced with her twice."

A faint flush stained the girl's cheeks.

"I asked him to," she answered softly. "She knoweth no one here, we invited her, she is a stranger, and we must show her some courtesy."

Mrs. Cowley picked up her fan.

"Of course—if only she were not a beauty—and she is a great beauty, and with her strange dress attracteth vast notice—" She paused, and Margaret challenged her:

"Well, madam?"

"I think it rather dangerous. I did notice her so distinctly in Haslemere—but a girl like that, and from town too—I wonder if she knoweth—"

"What?" Margaret kept her eyes on the emptying ball-room; the couple they discussed had disappeared through the farther door.

Mrs. Cowley continued firmly.

"I mean, can she realize what position Francis holdeth in Haslemere, what standard he acteth from? In a word, doth she understand that to her he is not a young gallant—but Francis Ribblestone?"

Margaret lifted her head.

"In what other way could this girl think of him?" she asked rather coldly.

"Oh, my dear, beautiful women put a high value on themselves—she is new to the country—she—as I say, she may not understand."

Margaret glanced down at her mother.

"I will tell you now, madam, what I meant to tell you afterwards when we were quite alone."

She paused and pressed her handkerchief to pallid lips.

"I have promised to marry Francis," she said huskily.

Her mother rose with a flush of genuine pleasure and triumph.

"Margaret! My Margaret!"

The girl kept her face averted.

"Please do not talk of it now, madam; he is to tell you to-morrow—only, you see"—she flashed round darkened eyes—"that it would be impossible for—him—to do anything this girl could possibly mistake—"

"Forgive me," said Mrs. Cowley gently, "you must not misunderstand."

Margaret interrupted hastily.

"Oh, no, I see what you mean—but it is quite foolish, indeed, madam."

Mrs. Cowley dismissed the matter of Serena from her thoughts; she was too exultant in the accomplishment of one of the wishes of her life—to see her only daughter secure the finest match in the county and become the wife of a man whom she had loved and admired. For a year past she had lived in constant fear of the brilliant graces and great wealth of Bernardine Muschamp, and now these had been (as she thought) defeated, her triumph was doubly dear. But Margaret took her good fortune very quietly; she would not talk of it though her mother's eyes were eloquent for confidences.

"We must not stay here, madame," she said. "People are looking for us—"

The violins in the gallery were beginning the measure of a "contre-dance" and the ladies rose up from the walls to meet their partners.

Serena Fowkes was dancing with Mr. Cowley, Francis Ribblestone with a friend of Margaret. "Are you not dancing, dear?"

"No more to-night, Mother; I want to speak to Bernardine, and she is at last alone."

Mrs. Cowley gave a wistful glance that followed the pale-coloured figure across the gleaming floor to where Bernardine Muschamp sat, on a gilt settee with a mirror behind it.

Margaret sank beside her, the two ruffled spreading hoops touching.

"Well, sweetheart," said Bernardine, "art thou tired of dancing already?"

And she smiled half sadly.

Margaret raised intense eyes and said in a soft voice under cover of the music:

"You will think me shameless. I want to ask you something."

Bernardine Muschamp did not reply; she put out her little hand and caressed Margaret's clasped fingers; her smile deepened.

She was of a very delicate appearance, not tall, extremely graceful, and dressed in the very height of rich fashion.

Her grey eyes and her sensitive mouth were beautiful, her aquiline nose aristocratic and authoritative, her chin rather heavy, but drawn in an exquisite line; she wore red and white and her hair was dressed over a pillow, and so powdered and pomaded as completely to disguise its original colour; this and her air of reserve and gentle knowledge made her appear more than her real age, which was a few years more than that of Margaret Cowley.

She wore a dress of dusky gold-coloured satin and a purple petticoat that made Margaret's gown appear faint and childish: her bodice was cut very low away from shoulders that had the line and hue of a figure in frail porcelain, and in her tiny ears gleamed immense pearls.

Margaret, looking at her, frowned, as if she was in difficulty with her thoughts; the music and the gentle steps of the dancers enveloped them with a dreamy sense of pleasure; the candle-light, flashing back from the water-green mirrors, shed scattered beams like stars reflected in the sea; a sad perfume of dead roses stirred from Bernardine's garments; at her breast hung a live flower, a scarlet bloom; like an inverted flame, with the stalk against her bare bosom.

"Bernardine," said Margaret, pressing the hand that had rested on hers, "Francis Ribblestone hath asked me to be his wife."

Mrs. Muschamp's eyes and smile expressed a tender response more sweetly than any words could have done.

"And I want to ask you," continued the younger girl, very low indeed, "if he ever—if he—if he is your rejected suitor?"

"Why, child," answered Mrs. Muschamp calmly and gently, "thou art too modest and these doubts are pretty, yet foolish. Dost thou think thy lover one to hold a divided allegiance?"

Margaret bit her lip.

"Every one," she said humbly, "knew how he admired you—"

"My dear, I believe he will admire many ladies yet...but thou art the woman he hath asked to be his wife."

"Forgive me." Margaret lifted a trembling face. "I thought—I have been so sure—that he...that it was you."

The regal grey eyes looked at her steadily.

"He was always the other side of friendship to me, Margaret."

"Thank you. Perhaps you will despise me for this...I have been very blunt."

Mrs. Muschamp hushed her.

"I hope we shall always be friends," she said simply.

"Oh, always, always!" responded Margaret eagerly; then they were both thoughtfully silent.

Almost imperceptibly Bernardine's glance shot under her long lashes in the direction of Francis Ribblestone, who moved slowly through the courtly figures of the dance. His powdered hair and the brilliancy of his light grey satin coat that sparkled with paste buttons threw into relief his dark face, flushed with that look of proud, contained joy she knew so well, and which she once had, though but for a moment's space, changed into a startled wrath by that one word "no."

His movements, in perfect unison with the lifting changes of the melody, were full of that silken grace which is the mask of strength self-contained and master of itself: there was no gentleman in the room who was not different from him and who did not lose by the difference, though there were handsomer faces and more gorgeous clothes.

Both the women seated in front of the mirror were, in their hearts, trying to define that almost extraordinary quality that set Francis Ribblestone apart.

To Margaret he seemed the flower of a fine race, a great gentleman—and—she could put not word to what other virtue in him held her eyes and her heart.

Bernardine saw him possessed of a rare spiritual gift of unconscious ardour, of pure nobility of thought and mood that gave him his exalted air of ardent pride; she fancied that he saw the world immaculate, and she held a curious belief that one day he would find it was not, and that the knowledge would bring tragedy to the dash of his lofty lightheartedness.

Her face saddened and she glanced covertly at Margaret's musing profile.

"You should be very happy," she said soberly.

"I am," whispered Margaret, pressing closer. "I am happier than I ever thought to be."

The low music ceased, and the two ladies roused themselves with a little quiver of silks.

"I must go now," said Margaret. She kissed Mrs. Muschamp's pure brow and left her; her pale swaying hoop seemed to gather all the light as she crossed the floor and passed out through the door with the wreathed cornice and fluted pillars.

Bernardine sat alone on the striped settee; although she was a figure in a scene of festival, one of an adorned and laughing company, she felt a sense of remoteness that placed her, to her own perceptions at least, apart; she had all her life this inner loneliness that haunted her, like a shadow flung from some unseen image of disaster, even in her moments of gaiety.

Companionship was not a solace, but a jar, to this mood; her lids dropped to shut out the moving crowd, then flashed up when she was aware of Francis Ribblestone coming towards her; she gave him that indulgently wise smile that was so incongruous with her youth, and emphasized, after her manner, with silence.

He slowly but unmistakably flushed, not being able so completely to ignore their last meeting as she was, though he had, within the week, put upon himself obligations to forget which she had not; he was bound to Margaret Cowley, and wished by that action to prove to Bernardine and to all his world that former chains had been lightly worn and lightly broken; she was still free and had never published her victory nor her rejection of it; in her complete assumption of forgetfulness lay her second triumph that robbed his pose of half its ease.

He took the settee beside her and swung his glass with the diamond handle.

"Are you soon for London?" he asked.

"Not this year," she answered. "I think to go to my uncle in Scotland, but I shall return for Margaret's wedding."

A deepening of the colour in his cheeks told his surprise that she should know so soon.

"I shall be grateful to you," he said, "and so will Margaret."

"Why?" smiled Bernardine. "I shall return to please myself—Margaret is my oldest friend, you know."

She languidly waved the glittering arc of her gold fan between herself and him, and looked away down the room towards the musicians' gallery.

"You will be glad perhaps to hear, ma'am, that Wyndham is more certain than ever before of an election in the spring."

She dropped the fan and turned sharply to gaze at him with liquid, deep eyes.

"Glad from my heart," she answered sincerely. "You will always believe, will you not, Francis? that I shall ever be pleasured by your good fortune."

He laughed excitedly.

"Not good fortune yet, but thank you, ma'am, a thousand times...I think," and that intense look of mastery and pride transfigured his face from charm to passion, "I could do something in Parliament."

Mrs. Muschamp was silent, checking the enthusiastic rejoinder his force of speech called to her lips; she disdained to play at a position she had refused, she had a scorn of sympathetic friendship based on rejected love.

"Who is the girl to whom you have played Providence this evening?" she asked, and then gave him his title. "Eh, Sir Francis?"

He slightly started.

"The girl?"

Mrs. Muschamp's fan pointed to a lady in white seated alone under the musicians' gallery.

"There is no need to describe her," she said rather coldly; "she is the most beautiful woman in the room."

Sir Francis smiled indifferently.

"That, of course, is debatable; but indeed I had not noticed until this evening what a lovely face she hath, like a Holy Madonna by Raffaello—she is a Miss Fowkes—"

"Not a gentlewoman," said Bernardine, interrupting in her low decided voice, "and from town—shy is she here?"

Francis Ribblestone raised his sweeping brows.

"I asked Mrs. Cowley to do her a kindness. I am sorry for her, I want to arrange a match for her with young Holt, and he was bid here to-night, but would not come, which is impudent in the fellow."

And he frowned at the recollection of a scheme ending in a failure, that had meant his devoting a great deal of attention to Miss Fowkes, since she was in a manner on his conscience.

"Holt, of Langley's Farm?"

"Yes—"

Mrs. Muschamp looked at him curiously.

"What maketh you think that she brought that face to Haslemere merely to dazzle a farmer?"

His dark eyes were uncomprehending.

"What do you mean, ma'am?" he asked; he was not very interested in the subject.

She gave a rather weary sigh.

"Oh, have you not yet realized what a dangerous thing it is to play Providence?"

He smiled gaily at her.

"I will bring the girl to you—she might amuse you, and she would be grateful for any kindness; think how dull the poor creature is—"

"Take her to Margaret—"

"I have—Margaret called her modest and gentle—" Mrs. Muschamp's eyes half closed.

"You might have her to the Manor House after the wedding," she said, "to mend linen and flower silks and preserve gooseberries."

He looked at her straightly, thinking there was mockery in her tone; but she opened her eyes innocently on him.

"Why not?" she said. "The poor moped wench would be glad of the prospect—go and tell her of it—"

Francis Ribblestone surveyed her with a bewildered frown.

"You seem to mean more than you say, madam."

"Do I?" She sat up. "Well, I suppose I am old enough to give you advice, like the grand-dames in story books—"

"Give me advice?"

She fingered the brilliant flower at her bosom. "You are doing a dangerous thing, Sir Francis."

Again he repeated her words.

"A dangerous thing?"

She kept her eyes on him as she answered.

"Gossip is winged and swift; even I," this proudly, "have not been able to avoid it—is the girl discreet, is she sensible—doth she not perhaps make a mistake?"

At that he saw it, and the shock brought the hot blood to his face.

"Gracious God, Bernardine, this from you!" Then he laughed. "It is absolutely and vastly absurd."

"Of course," she said gravely. "On your side—but on hers?"

Francis was angry and contemptuous.

"The creature is not a fool—" he was dismissing the subject grandly, but she laid her little fingers on his satin cuff.

"Very well—then go and tell her now—that you hope to see her at the Manor House after your wedding."

"That is very simple," he answered proudly. "And I will do it, madam, just to prove to you how wrong you are."