Читать книгу Mignonette - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 18

Table of Contents

Barbara wrote to Francis Shermandine, with a hint of trepidation: "I have the young French girl staying here I told you of, an old promise redeemed. I fear it is not very cheerful for her as I am in mourning and know so few people. Really, I do not quite know what to do with her, pray be indulgent when you see her—to one of your tastes, she will seem frivolous."

Barbara's anxious hand covered the pages rapidly, for she did not want his first visit to Portsmouth spoiled; she did not want Mignonette (she forced herself to use that name in her mind) to have her pride hurt, for the girl was, no doubt, not at all likely to please Francis, with his keen sensitiveness, his intellectual interests, his lofty ideals.

He had written Barbara pages of closely reasoned philosophy, art criticism, delicate probings into life, musings on religion, and she had read all with tender eagerness and ventured, encouraged by his confidence, on expressing some long dormant, timid opinions of her own.

She, therefore, felt that she knew him well, and she could see no point of contact between him and Mignonette, charming, well behaved, in a way lovable, but, Barbara judged, not in the least intellectual or spiritual.

Musing, with her pen poised, she thought, Mignonette is different from anyone who has ever been in this house before.

But she did not put that on paper.

There was no fault to be found with the French girl, she fitted exactly into the rather somber routine of Stone Hall, giving no trouble to the servants, being punctual, tidy, and cheerful. She even attended with decorum the family prayers that Barbara held out of respect to the memory of her father. She had few clothes, but these were in good taste and neat to a degree that Barbara could never achieve. Her fashions, very plain, without ornament, were such as Barbara had never seen. Her embroidery, that she kept covered with jealous care in muslin, was so particular and fine that it did not seem to Barbara as if it were the work of mortal fingers.

She had smiled aside a suggestion that she should sing or play in a house of mourning, but Barbara believed her to be a good musician.

On the other hand, she evaded what Barbara termed "serious conversation," showed no interest in the historical curiosities of Portsmouth, nor in the weighty topics of the day that filled the columns of The Times, and though she gave no sign of boredom, Barbara could not believe that life in Stone Hall really interested her. I wonder why she stays—she will not like Francis, he is much too grave for her—and I have no companions for her.

The few attempts that Barbara had made to introduce Mignonette to some local society had not been successful. The people who still occasionally called at Stone Hall were very dubious about the French girl, as if they guessed her story. Barbara was not clever enough to "place" her guest with any precision. Disliking lies, she kept the girl's background too vague. Aimée Falconet knew no one, she had no introductions. Her appearance was not liked. She was too different from the English people, too peculiar to be received unless she had been backed by powerful credentials. The vicar of St. Peter's was stiff and, though Mignonette went regularly to church, his wife was barely civil.

Barbara was known to be wealthy, alone, unworldly. Several of her father's friends hovered on the verge of warning questions: Who was the foreign girl? Did Barbara Lawne really know sufficient about her to receive her into her home? Had she not presumed on some very slight acquaintance her mother had had with poor Mrs. Lawne?

Barbara sensed this atmosphere and it made her feel uneasy and a fool, and that the invitation had been a mistake. No one was getting anything out of it but annoyance, even Mignonette herself could not be enjoying this dull visit.

In an effort to do the duty that she had impulsively set herself Barbara touched on the question of her half sister's marriage.

Mignonette was candid about this. It had been arranged, according to French custom. The man had a good character, a good family.

"There is my irregular birth to overlook, you see. The agency had no great hopes for me, even with a good dowry."

"Perhaps the dowry is not large enough," said Barbara with distaste, feeling her way to offering more.

"It is not much," agreed Mignonette. "We raised some of it at a high rate of interest to pay for my education."

"You mean that it is not all yours!"

"Less than half of it. My mother went to a moneylender."

"I did not know that you could," said Barbara, astonished and bewildered.

"Oh, it was quite good security—Mr. Lawne's promise, his will."

"Did he know that you ere doing this?"

"No."

"Could you not have asked him to increase your pension?"

"We did."

"And he refused?"

"Yes."

"How could he—if you were pressed?"

"Mr. Lawne had different ideas from my mother about my education. He thought that it could be managed cheaply."

"It isn't expensive, surely," said Barbara, thinking how little had been spent on her own upbringing.

"No? But I have a voice, a really good voice, and talent—I speak three languages really well. I can dress my own hair and make my own clothes, I have many accomplishments."

Mignonette spoke without boasting, even gently.

"But what was the need?" asked Barbara. "I mean, for a woman this is not happiness. It sounds ambitious."

"It was. I had nothing. Neither money nor connections," she emphasized. "There was only marriage. With accomplishments one has a higher price."

"I wish you would not put it in that way."

"I suppose it is the same in England, only you are more hypocritical."

"Here we hope for—love."

"Oh, love!" echoed the French girl.

"At least," said Barbara hurriedly. "All this trouble and expense—what did it get you?"

"The marriage was not brilliant, but not impossible. Perhaps money, and a place in Parisian society."

"Have you made up your mind to accept it

"I suppose so. You see, I have no chance of anything else." Barbara pressed boldly into the matter, blushing at her own temerity.

"I wish you would wait until you can love someone, Mignonette. You are so young and so pretty—any day you might meet someone—"

She remembered the odd chance by which she had met Francis Shermandine.

"Do wait, Mignonette."

"I cannot afford to wait for love." The French girl spoke so reasonably, even sweetly, that Barbara was encouraged to freer speech, turning her narrowed shortsighted eyes on to the other's fresh face as she spoke.

"I ought to tell you, dear, that I can't help you. I fear now that you came here thinking that I could introduce you to some likely families." Barbara flushed, feeling this an odious thing to say, and hurried on. "Where you could find a better marriage—but I know so few." She rambled on, listening to her own voice, feeling ashamed, trying to persuade Aimée to return to France. She could do nothing for her, and, though she did not admit this to herself, she no longer wanted her at Stone Hall.

"You see, dear, though I know so little of society, I do know that without introductions—"

"I know—but there are ways of getting in."

"I did not think of them, of any of this," sighed Barbara. "But only of how we might make a pleasant, perhaps a loving acquaintance."

"I know, I know," interrupted the other with warmth, but not, Barbara thought, with feeling. "We are so grateful, my mother and myself. If you wished, she would write and tell you so."

"You have nothing to be grateful for, and I could not receive a letter from Madame Falconet."

"She knows that. She has not intruded."

The two young women came to a pause before a bed of tall evening primroses, the pale flowers luminous in the deepening shade. They had been turning round the garden paths for half an hour and Barbara, at least, had not observed the heat leaving the air, the ruby glow overspreading the ruby sky, the enchantment of shadow falling over the commonplace garden.

Now she looked closely, peering with her shortsighted eyes at Mignonette, who appeared very young, childish even, in her slenderness, with her hair in curls on her low forehead, like the buds of a hyacinth, and a forlorn pride in her erect little figure, as if she expected misfortune and was brave to face it.

"I want to make up your dowry," whispered Barbara nervously. "I can do that, at least, I shall speak to Mr. Bompast about it."

"If you are very wealthy and it makes no difference to you."

"No, I have a large fortune; there is a good deal of furniture here, also, silver and plate, far more than you see, if there is anything you care for."

"You are kind," said Mignonette simply.

Barbara thought, I wish I could discuss all this with Francis, he would help me so much. I suppose he will ask me to marry him when he comes to Portsmouth—when I am married I might help Mignonette to find an English husband, but, no, it is better she should return to France and that her mother should manage everything for her.

They moved slowly toward the house, past the red valerians, the sweet Williams, above which the night moths fluttered. Overhead a swift darted home.

"Tomorrow night," said Barbara, "I have a few friends to dinner—I am so sorry I could get no one amusing for you."

"Perhaps you would rather that I did not come down at all."

"Oh, no, of course not. But I fear it may be dull for you."