Читать книгу A Perfect Fool - Florence Warden - Страница 4

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Poor Mrs. Abercarne tried to look as if she didn’t mind, but the attempt was a failure. It was with uneasy hearts and troubled countenances that both she and her daughter went through the station and got into the comfortable carriage which was waiting for them outside.

Then, when they were well on their way, Chris rashly tried to comfort her.

“Never mind, mother,” whispered she, tucking her hand lovingly under her mother’s arm, and speaking in a bright voice which expressed more cheerfulness than she felt. “Perhaps he didn’t hear. And, after all, you didn’t say anything so very dreadful, did you?” she added, trying to ignore those awful last words about the bad manners of rustics. “I daresay he knows himself that his footman looks rather round-faced and rosy.”

“Indeed, Chris, it matters very little to me whether he heard or not,” answered Mrs. Abercarne, quickly “These people must expect to hear the truth of themselves sometimes; and it cannot possibly affect us for as you know, we have only come here, as one may say, for the fun of the thing, and nothing would induce us to stay here permanently in the house of such a barbaric person as you can see for yourself this Mr. Bradfield is.”

And Mrs. Abercarne, having run herself quite out of breath in her haste to persuade Chris that her conduct had been singularly discreet and full of tact, sat back and looked out of the carriage window at the sea.

Chris had the wisdom to murmur, “Yes, mamma,” and then to say nothing more except a few comments on the street through which they were passing. She was dreading the reception they would meet with at the hands of the justly-offended owner of Wyngham House. For the first time she realised the disagreeable nature of their position, the fact that they came, not as visitors, but as hired dependents on the good pleasure of a stranger, who could, if he chose, even send them about their business with the curt intimation that their services would not be wanted.

To dispel these gloomy thoughts, or, at least, to prevent her mother from guessing what troubled her, Chris looked about her as they drove along.

She saw, in the first place, that Wyngham was a garrison town, for the red coats of soldiers made pleasant spots of colour in the straight, narrow old street. This street changed gradually in character, until the shops and inns gave place to houses of a more or less modern type; and, at last, these dwellings came to an abrupt end on one side of the road, and there was nothing but a strip of waste land, and a strip beyond that of sharply shelving beach, between them and the sea.

Chris, straining her eyes in the darkness, could see lights twinkling on the ships as they passed, and she gave a cry of delight. She had lived near the sea at one time, for Mrs. Abercarne had had a house at Southsea in her more prosperous days. But it was some years since that bright period was over, and Chris had grown reconciled to the fogs of London since then. The sight, and the smell of the sea filled her with vivid sensations of pleasure. She remembered the bright sun and the breezy walks, and her heart seemed to rise at a bound, only to sink the next moment with the despairing thought that her mother had made their stay in this delightful place impossible.

The same thought may have crossed her mother’s mind also, for Mrs. Abercarne made no comment on her daughter’s exclamations of pleasure, but sat in silence for the rest of the drive.

Wyngham House was a little way out of the town, and was so close to the sea, that the ocean looked, as Chris afterwards expressed it, like a lake in the grounds. It was approached from the inland side by a short carriage drive, and was surrounded by grounds of some natural beauty, but of no great pretension. The house, which was built in the Italian style, and painted white, was large and rather pretty. It was approached by a porch in which, as the carriage drove up, a man-servant, in livery, was waiting to receive the new arrivals. Chris peeped about anxiously for the master of the house, and even Mrs. Abercarne betrayed to her daughter’s eyes certain signs of nervous apprehension. But there was no one to be seen except the respectful and stolid-looking butler, and a neat housemaid, who was waiting inside the entrance hall to show them upstairs.

“You would like to go straight up to your rooms, ma’am, would you not?” asked the maid, smiling. “There is a fire in the drawing-room, but it’s only just been lit, and it’s rather cold in there.”

Mrs. Abercarne answered that they should like to go to their rooms; and she spoke very graciously, being mollified by the civility of their reception. For the butler had even delivered his master’s apologies for not receiving them in person, pleading a business appointment. The sharp eyes of Chris, however, detected that a door on the left, just inside the inner hall, was ajar, and that a hand, wearing a signet ring, which she recognised as Mr. Bradfield’s, was visible between the door-post and the door. This fact depressed her. Surely, if Mr. Bradfield had overlooked her mother’s indiscretion, he would, instead of spying upon their entrance, have come out and welcomed them himself. She felt sure that before the evening was over there would be a scene which would result in their leaving the place. And this thought, which had caused her a little distress before, caused her a great deal more now.

For Chris perceived, as soon as she stepped inside the house, that she was in a sort of fairy palace, the like of which she had never seen before. Both halls were hung with rich tapestries, whether old or new she did not know, but the effect of which was of luxury, beauty, and romance, which fired her young imagination while it charmed her eyes. From the ceiling hung lamps of various patterns, from the many-coloured Chinese lantern, with its pictures and hanging strings of beads, to the graceful modern Italian lamp of shining silver, with its flying cupids and richly-ornamented chains. Over a beautiful carved marble fireplace hung a priceless picture, a genuine Murillo, the dark colours of which stood out in sombre relief against its massive gilt frame. On each side beautiful and interesting objects claimed the attention of the new-comers. Chris, younger and more impressionable than her mother, lingered behind, and cast admiring looks at Florentine cabinets, rare old china vases, and trophies of ancient armour, which were among the beautiful and curious things with which the inner hall was stored.

Turning to the left they came to the staircase, the balustrade of which was so elaborately carved as to be magnificent to the eye, and particularly uncomfortable to the hand.

“That’s the study,” whispered the housemaid, as she led them past a door on the left, up the first short flight of stairs.

And from the respectful glance and the lowered tone Chris guessed that the master of the house passed most of his time in that apartment, and also that he was held in some awe by his servants.

They passed on, up a second flight of stairs, to the right, noticing as they went a dazzling collection of curious and interesting objects, old hanging clocks and cupboards, rare Oriental plates and bowls, weapons, helmets, and ancient shields. As they proceeded up the second flight of stairs they found themselves surrounded on all sides by pictures, old and new, paintings in oils and drawings in water-colour, with which the walls were so well covered that scarcely a glimpse could be caught of the dark red distemper which was the background to the gilt frames.

At the top of the stairs they came to a corridor which ran the whole length of the main body of the house; and this was a veritable museum of beautiful and curious cabinets, high-backed chairs, the seats of which were covered with ancient tapestry, Dresden clocks, models of Indian temples, canoes, and of curiosities so many and so various that Chris grew confused and walked as if in a dream with only one conscious thought—the fear of falling against some precious rarity, and drawing upon herself eternal disgrace and confusion.

Mrs. Abercarne being, although she would not betray the fact, full of nervous apprehension, as well as of vexation at her altered and degraded position, saw less than her daughter did; but even she, with her additional disadvantage of being short-sighted, began to be aware that her surroundings were of a very exceptional kind.

“Dear me,” she exclaimed, stopping short and raising the gold double eye-glass she carried, as a beautiful porcelain vase caught her eye. “Why, that must be Dresden, old Dresden. Your master has very excellent taste. There are some beautiful things here. It’s quite a museum!”

She spoke in a patronising manner to the maid, glad of an opportunity to show what a very superior person she was. For a taste for old china does not come by nature.

But the housemaid was a superior person also.

“Oh, yes,” she answered with surprise. “Don’t you know that Mr. Bradfield’s collection is famous, and that people write and ask him to see it, quite as if he was royalty! We’ve had a Duke here, looking at those very things, and wishing they were his, and saying so!”

And the maid smiled with a sense of her own share in the glory that the Duke’s visit had cast upon the establishment.

They went the whole length of the corridor, and were shown into a bedroom on the right, the window of which looked inland. It was rather a small room, this fact being emphasised by the quantity of handsome and costly furniture with which it was filled. Before a carved white stone fireplace, fitted with pretty tiles, another housemaid was kneeling. She started up when the ladies came in.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said she; “the fire will draw up directly, and the room will soon be warm. It was only ten minutes ago master told me you were to have this room, instead of the one in the wing.”

Chris caught a frown from the other housemaid, intimating that this information was not wanted. Then the second housemaid having said she would bring them some hot water, the ladies were left to themselves.

Chris, tired as she was, spent the next ten minutes alternately in an ecstacy of high spirits, and a fit of deep depression; the former the result of her delight in her surroundings, the latter the effect of her belief that she would soon have to leave them.

“I wonder why he ordered our room to be changed?” she whispered to her mother, as she admired in turn the handsome brass bedstead, with its spread of silk and lace, the rosewood furniture, the little lady’s writing-table, the cosy sofa and easy-chair. “Have we been sent up or sent down? If we have been sent up, the bedroom in the wing must have been gorgeous indeed. Mother, this bed is too magnificent to sleep in; and as for the so-called dressing-room next door,” and she peeped through a door which communicated with a second and rather smaller room, “it is a cross between a museum and a palatial boudoir.”

Mrs. Abercarne, of course, took these marvels more quietly. She understood quite well that she was in an exceptionally beautiful and well-fitted house; but she did not care to acknowledge that it was anything out of the common to her. The ingenuous delight of Chris, therefore, rather annoyed her, so that at last the girl had to become apologetic.

“You know, mother,” she whispered humbly, “I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life as this place and I can’t help noticing it. You see, you were well-off once, and used to beautiful houses. But you know that to me everything seems new and wonderful.”

And Mrs. Abercarne repented of her petulant rebuke, remembering, with tears in her eyes, that Chris had had indeed very little experience of luxury.

They had been told that dinner would be ready in a few minutes, so Chris opened the door a little way, waiting for a further announcement to be made to them. At the opposite side of the corridor, and a little nearer than their door to the very end of it, a maidservant was coming in and out of another door. A few steps further down the maid was met by the footman with a tray. He began to express his feelings in tones which reached the ears of Chris.

“Well, this is a rum start!” he said confidentially to the housemaid as he passed her. “Everything was ready for two in the housekeeper’s room; but now it seems that the basement isn’t good enough, and we’re to dine upstairs like the quality.”

“Hold your tongue,” whispered the girl, laughing. “Be a good boy, and you will see what you will see.”

And she tripped past him, and left him to go on his way along the corridor.

Chris did not repeat to her mother the scrap of conversation she had overheard; but it increased her own feelings of curiosity and bewilderment.

“Do you think Mr. Bradfield will dine with us, mother?” she asked, as she softly closed the door.

The words were hardly out of her mouth when there was a knock at the door, and the footman announced that dinner was ready for them in the Chinese-room. The two ladies were then shown into an apartment so pretty that Chris felt constrained to keep her eyes down, in deference to her mother’s wishes, lest her unseemly delight should be noticed by the servants.

It was indeed a most beautiful room which they now entered. Windows on two sides were at this time covered by the drawn curtains, and these, of dark blue silk, richly embroidered with conventional Chinese figures, gave a striking character to the apartment. The walls were lined with bookcases well filled with books, while in the corner, close to a fireplace beautifully decorated in the modern style, a piano stood temptingly open. A cabinet entirely full of Chinese models and toys carved in ivory filled the remaining space against the walls, while under one window stood a long writing-table, and under the other two low-seated easy-chairs. In the middle of the room a small table had been laid for dinner for two persons; and this again excited the admiration of Chris by the quaint beauty of the old silver, and the magnificence of the Crown Derby dinner-service.

The room was lighted entirely by wax candles, in massive silver candlesticks, and this luxurious light completed the charm which her surroundings had thrown over Chris. The girl had been hungry on her first arrival, but she now found herself too much excited to eat. She felt that in this house of marvels something must surely be going to happen, and each time the door opened she glanced towards it with eager eyes.

When at last the crowning charm of the meal had arrived in the shape of dessert, served on the daintiest of Sèvres china, and the footman had left them to themselves, Chris drew a long breath.

“Mamma!” she said, in a voice in which girlish merriment struggled with a little real awe, “this is too much. It is so mysterious that it frightens me. All this magnificence just for the housekeeper and her daughter! Everything served in the most gorgeous manner, and no master to be seen. Why, it’s just like Beauty and the Beast!”

A short laugh frightened her so much that she started up from her chair. Mr. Bradfield, in a rough shooting-suit, stood just inside the room.

“That’s it, Miss Abernethy, or Miss Apricot, or whatever your name is,” said he grimly. “And I’m the Beast.”