The Quiet Gentleman

Chapter 10

It was not to be expected that Miss Bolderwood could compose herself for slumber that night until she had poured forth the agitating events of the evening into her friend’s ears. Lord Ulverston’s kindness and good-humour had done much to calm her disturbed nerves, but these had been shocked, and would not readily recover. Since her schoolroom days she had almost never found herself alone with a man other than her Papa, for even when the Earl taught her to drive his curricle his groom had always been perched up behind the carriage. The anxious care of her parents had wrapped her about; and although her disposition led her to flirt with her many admirers it had never occurred to her innocent mind that these tactics might lead them, on the first occasion when they found her unprotected, to take shocking advantage of her levity. Her spirits were quite borne down by the discovery; and she was much inclined to think herself a fast girl, with whom gentlemen thought it proper to take liberties.

Miss Morville, however, received her confidences with admirable calm and common-sense. While agreeing that it was no doubt disagreeable to be found in such an embarrassing situation, she maintained that it was no matter for wonder that Martin should have so far forgotten himself. “If you will be so pretty, Marianne, and flirt so dreadfully, what can you expect?”

“Oh, I was never so mortified! I had not the least notion he would try to do such a thing!”

“Well, he should not, of course, but he is very young, after all, and I daresay he is ashamed of it now,” said Miss Morville consolingly. “If I were you, I would not refine too much upon the incident!”

“How can you talk so? He behaved as though I were — as though I were the veriest drab!”She saw that Miss Morville was looking amused, and added indignantly: “Drusilla, how can you be so insensible? You must have felt it as I do!”

“Perhaps I might,” acknowledged Miss Morville. “I don’t think I should, but the melancholy truth is that no one has ever shown the smallest desire to kiss me!”

“I envy you!” declared Marianne. “I wish I knew how I am to face Martin at breakfast tomorrow! I cannot do it!”

“Oh, there will not be the smallest difficulty!” Miss Morville pointed out. “It is tomorrow already, and if you partake of breakfast at all it will be in this room, and not until many hours after the gentlemen have eaten theirs.”

This practical response was not very well-received, Marianne saying rather pettishly that Drusilla seemed not to enter into her feelings at all, and pointing out that whether it was at the breakfast-table or at the dinner-table her next meeting with Martin must cause her insupportable embarrassment.

“I daresay it will cause him embarrassment too,” observed Miss Morville, “so the sooner you have met, and can put it all behind you, the easier you will be.”

“If only I might go home!” Marianne said.

“Well, and so you will, in a day or two. To run away immediately would be to give rise to the sort of comment I am sure you would not like; and, you know, you can scarcely continue to reside in the same neighbourhood without encountering Martin.”

There could be no denying the good-sense of this remark. Marianne shed a few tears; and after animadverting indignantly on Martin’s folly, effrontry, and ill-breeding, turned from the contemplation of his depraved character to dwell with gratitude on the exquisite tact and kindness of Lord Ulverston.

“I can never be sufficiently obliged to him!” she declared. “I am persuaded he cannot have remained in ignorance of my distress, for I was so much mortified I could scarcely speak, and as for meeting his gaze, it was wholly beyond my power! I was ready to sink for fear he should ask me what was the matter, but he never did! There was something so very kind in the way he offered me his arm, and took me to drink a glass of lemonade, saying it was insufferably hot in the ballroom, and should I not like to go where it was cooler? And then, you know, we talked of all manner of things, until I was comfortable again, and I do think there was never anyone more good-natured.”

Miss Morville was very ready to encourage her in these happier reflections; and by dint of pointing out how sad it would be for Marianne to leave Stanyon before she had become better acquainted with his lordship, soon prevailed upon her to abandon this scheme. If her young friend’s artless panegyric left her with the suspicion that an embrace from the Viscount would have awakened no outraged feelings in her breast, this was a thought which she was wise enough to keep to herself.

Marianne was sure that she would be unable to close her eyes for what remained of the night. However that might have been, they were very peacefully closed for long after Miss Morville had left her bedchamber later in the morning. Miss Morville peeped into her room, but Marianne did not stir, and she left her to have her sleep out.

Only the gentlemen appeared at the breakfast-table, but by eleven o’clock most of the ladies had come downstairs from their rooms, including Lady Grampound, who seemed to have risen for no other purpose than to ensure that her sons were given rides by Martin. Upon his not unreasonably demurring at this demand, compliance with which must remove him from the Castle before any of the visitors had departed, she said that to oblige his nephews was the least he could do: an oblique reference to his misconduct which provoked him into replying that if giving rides to her brats would make her departure from Stanyon that day a certainty he would be happy to do it.

By noon, all the ball-guests except the Grampounds had left the Castle, and the Dowager was free to discuss the evening’s festivity with anyone so unwise as to approach her chair, to congratulate herself upon the excellence of the supper, and to enumerate all the guests who had been particularly gratified to have received invitations. In this innocuous amusement she was joined by her daughter, who could not conceive of greater bliss for her fellow-creatures than to find themselves at Stanyon, and who had further cause for complacence in having had her gown admired by the Duchess. The tempestuous entrance into the room of Harry and John, bursting to tell their Mama about the rides they had enjoyed, caused an interruption. Conversation became impossible, for when they had stopped shouting their news in unison to Lady Grampound they fell out over the rights of primogeniture, Harry contending that to ransack the contents of Grandmama’s netting-box was his privilege, and Johnny very hotly combating such a suggestion.

“Dear little fellows!” said the Dowager. “They would like to play a game, I daresay. How much they enjoyed playing at spillikins with dear Marianne yesterday!”

“Yes, indeed, Mama, but pray do not put it into their heads to do so again, for I told them they must not tease Miss Bolderwood to repeat her kindness.”

Marianne, who was engaged in restoring its contents to the netting-box, took the hint. She insisted that she would be very happy to play with the children, and went away to find the spillikins, while Lady Grampound informed her offspring of the treat in store for them. By the time Marianne returned, peace had been restored, even Johnny’s yells at being shrewdly kicked by his brother having ceased at the sight of a box of sugar-plums.

When Martin presently came into the room with Lord Ulverston, Marianne was too much engrossed with the game to accord him more than a brief, shy greeting. He said awkwardly that it was a particularly fine day, so that he thought she might care to walk in the shrubbery before luncheon was served. She declined it, and a moment later he had the mortification of seeing Ulverston join the spillikin-party, and receive a very welcoming smile and blush.

The Grampounds were to leave Stanyon during the afternoon, and while the party sat round the table in one of the saloons, eating cold meat and fruit, Lord Grampound expressed a wish to visit a house in the neighbourhood which he had some thought of hiring for the accommodation of his family during the summer months. This led his wife to explain in detail the extensive improvements which were to be put in hand at Grampound Manor, the fatal effects of Brighton air upon Harry’s liverish constitution, and her own ardent desire to spend the summer within reach of Stanyon. The Dowager, loftily disregarding her stepson’s claims to be consulted in the matter, at once invited her daughter to come to Stanyon itself, and to remain there for as long as she pleased, an invitation which her ladyship would certainly have accepted had Lord Grampound not intervened to say with great firmness that he preferred to hire a house of his own.

“I daresay it may be best, my love,” agreed his wife. “Not but what it would be pleasant for Mama to have the children at Stanyon for a really long stay, and I am sure I do not know where they would be happier. However, I do not mean to be setting myself up in opposition, and it shall be as you wish. The only thing is that I do not perfectly recollect the way to Kentham. Martin, you shall ride with Grampound as far as the house, for I am persuaded you must know how best to reach it, and then we can see it together, and you will be back at Stanyon in time for dinner.”

This cool disposal of his time exasperated Martin into saying: “A delightful scheme, Louisa, but I have something else to do this afternoon!”

“Nonsense! what can you possibly have to do?” she replied. “You only wish to be disobliging, and may very well go with us, if you choose.”

He was silent.

Lord Grampound cleared his throat. “I should be happy to have Martin’s company on the road, but if he does not care to go with us, I shall refrain from pressing him.”

Martin was still silent, and Gervase, feeling that he had borne enough, interposed, saying: “If you will accept my escort, Grampound, I shall be glad to go with you. I don’t promise to lead you aright, but I fancy I have a general notion of where Kentham lies.”

His lordship accepted this offer. Martin was conscious of a feeling of gratitude, which, however, was speedily dispelled by his sister, who read him a homily on conduct, and ended by drawing an unflattering comparison between his manners and those of his brother.

“You may as well stop prosing to me!” he said hastily, thrusting back his chair from the table. “St. Erth is perfection itself, of course! If you toad-eat him enough I daresay he will second my mother’s invitation to you to spend the summer at Stanyon!”

“Be quiet, you young fool!” said Theo, under his breath.

“Don’t disturb yourself! I’m going!” Martin snapped, and flung himself out of the room.

Marianne could not doubt that his refusal to accompany the Grampounds arose from his determination to engage her in private conversation. He had made two attempts already to detach her from the rest of the party, and since she did not know what to say to him if he offered an apology, or how to repulse him if he tried to renew his love-making, she was thrown into a flutter of nerves, and so earnestly begged Miss Morville not to leave her side for an instant that Drusilla, who had meant to walk across the Park to her own home, to perform some few duties there, was obliged to abandon her design. Until the Grampounds took their departure, everyone lingered in the Castle, but when, not more than an hour later than had been intended, and after only two false starts, the coaches, preceded by the Earl and his brother-in-law on horseback, at last passed under the Gate Tower, and bowled away through the Park, there was nothing to keep the remaining company within doors any longer. Miss Morville suggested the refreshment of a walk in the shrubbery to Marianne, and thither they repaired, enjoying the bright spring sunshine, and talking over such aspects of the ball as Marianne could bear to recall without pain. The painful episode, however, was bound to obtrude, and although a night’s repose had to a great extent soothed Marianne’s more exaggerated reflections, she confided in Miss Morville that although she had previously thought her Mama very old-fashioned to allow her to go nowhere without her chaperonage, she now saw how dangerous it was for a female to be alone with a young man.

After they had been walking about the paths for a little while, they were joined by Lord Ulverston. He had an arm for both ladies, but it was not long before Miss Morville perceived herself to be unnecessary either to his comfort or to Marianne’s. She ventured to suggest that she should leave them, to go on her interrupted errand to Gilbourne House. Beyond saying: “Must you go indeed? You will be so tired, after dancing all night!” Marianne made no objection. The dangers attached to finding herself alone with a young man were forgotten; and since Miss Morville had perfect confidence in Lord Ulverston’s ability to keep whatever ardour he might feel within the bounds of the strictest propriety, she had no hesitation in leaving him to entertain her friend.

She was met at Gilbourne House by the housekeeper, who had a great many problems to lay before her, and a great many grievances to pour into her ears. Not the least of these was the shocking ingratitude, selfishness, and duplicity of one of the maids, who, having been given permission to spend a night at her own home in the village, had, instead of returning in good time upon the following morning, sent up a message to the house that she had had the misfortune to sprain her ankle, and could not set her foot to the ground. As the village lay a mile beyond Gilbourne House, it was not to be expected that stout Mrs. Buxton could go there to verify the truth of this message; but she informed Miss Morville darkly that she had always suspected the errant damsel of flightiness.

Miss Morville did not share this suspicion, but she promised to visit Kitty’s home, for she had a strong sense of duty, and had been bred up by her progressive parents to think the well-being of her dependents particularly her concern.

So after a slight argument with Mrs. Buxton, who, by no means as progressive as her master and mistress, desired her not to go to the village without taking a manservant with her to act as escort, and to carry her basket, Miss Morville set out to visit the sufferer.

She found the case to be exactly as had been stated, poor Kitty’s ankle being very much swollen. Her offerings of arnica, eggs, and a cheese wrested from Mrs. Buxton’s jealously guarded storeroom, were accepted with thanks, and some doubt, Kitty’s mother being of the unshakable opinion that nothing could do more good to sprains, sores, chilblains, and a variety of other ills, than goose-fat, well rubbed in. But a visit from Miss Morville was at once an honour and a pleasure. She must be taken into the tiny parlour, regaled with juniper wine, and the whole history of Kitty’s accident, and thanked again and again for her condescension. The hour was consequently rather far advanced when Drusilla at last left the cottage, and it was beginning to be dusk. She had only a little way to walk, however, before she was able to enter the Park, by one of its subsidiary gates. An avenue led from the gate to the stables, and the kitchen-court, but it was circuitous, and the quickest way was through the Home Wood, by one of the pleasant rides which led to the main avenue.

The wood was full of shadows, and already a little chilly, after the setting of the sun, but Miss Morville, neither so fashionable as to disdain wearing a warm pelisse, nor so delicate as to be unable to walk at a brisk pace, suffered no discomfort. She did not even imagine, when some small animal stirred in the undergrowth, that she was being followed; and was so insensible as to remain impervious to the alarm which might have been caused by the sudden scutter of a rabbit across the path. A quarter of an hour’s quick walking brought her to within sight of the main avenue. The thud of a horse’s hooves came to her ears, which led her to suppose, not that a desperate, and probably masked, brigand approached, but that the Earl, having parted from the Grampounds, was on his way back to the Castle. She was right: in another instant, she had a brief vision of Cloud, cantering along the grass verge beside the avenue. Since she was walking almost at right angles to the avenue, Cloud and his rider were swiftly hidden from her sight, as they passed the opening of the ride, and became obscured by the trees and the bushes which bordered the avenue. But although she could no longer see the horse and his rider, she could still hear the thud of the hooves, and when these ceased abruptly, to be succeeded by the unmistakable sound of a fall, followed by the scrabble of hooves on loose stones, and the clatter of a bolting horse, she was not so prosaically-minded as to suppose that these sounds could have been caused by anything other than an accident. It seemed odd that the Earl should have taken a toss on a smooth stretch of turf, but without pausing to consider the improbability of such an occurrence Miss Morville picked up her skirts and ran forward as quickly as she could. Within a very few seconds she had reached the avenue, to be confronted by a startling sight. Of Cloud there was no sign, but his rider lay motionless across the narrow grass verge, his head and shoulders resting on the avenue. This circumstance, as Miss Morville realized, was enough to account for his having been stunned. She dropped to her knees beside his inanimate form, and without the smallest hesitation ripped open his coat to feel the beat of his heart.

The Earl regained consciousness to find himself lying with his head in Miss Morville’s lap, his elaborate Mail-coach cravat untied, and the scent of aromatic vinegar in his nostrils. Gazing bemusedly up into the concerned face bent over him, he uttered, a trifle thickly: “Good God! I fell!”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Morville, removing her vinaigrette from under his nose. “I cannot discover, my lord, that any limb is broken, but I might be mistaken. Can you move your arms and your legs?”

“Lord, yes! There are no bones broken!” he replied, struggling up to a sitting posture, and clasping his head between his hands. “But I don’t understand! How in the devil’s name came I — Where’s my horse?”

“I expect,” said Miss Morville, “that he has bolted for his stable, for there was no sign of him when I reached your side. Do not disturb yourself on his account! He could scarcely have done so had he sustained any injury! It is, in fact, a fortunate circumstance that he bolted, for he will give the alarm, you know, and since your groom knows in which direction you rode out we may shortly expect to receive succour.”

He uttered a shaken laugh. “You think of everything, ma’am!”

“I may think of everything,” said Miss Morville, “but I am not always able to accomplish all I should wish to! My chief desire has been to procure water with which to revive you, but, in the circumstances, I scarcely dared to leave your side. I do not think,from what I can observe, that you have broken your collar-bone.”

“I am very sure I have not, ma’am. I have merely broken my head!”

“Does it pain you very much?” she asked solicitiously.

“Why, yes! It aches like the very deuce, but not, I assure you, as much as does my self-esteem! How came I to fall, like the rawest of greenhorns?” He received no answer to this, and added, with an effort towards playfulness: “But I forget my manners! I must thank you for preserving my life, Miss Morville — even though it may have been at the cost of my cravat!”

“I am not, in general,” said Miss Morville carefully, “an advocate for the employment of hyperbole in describing trifling services, but I believe, my lord, that in this instance I may be justly said to have done so.”

He was engaged, with only slightly unsteady fingers, in loosely knotting the ruined cravat about his throat, but at these words he paused in his task to frown at her in some bewilderment. “I collect that in this uncertain light I must have been so careless as to let Cloud set his foot in a rabbit-burrow. I own, I have no very clear remembrance of what occurred, but — ”

“No,” said Miss Morville.

He looked intently at her. “No?”

“You have been unconscious for several minutes, sir,” said Miss Morville. “When once I had ascertained that your heart still beat strongly, I had leisure to look about me, to discover, if I might, what had been the cause of the accident. I am excessively reluctant to add to your present discomforts, but I must request you, in your own interests, to look at what met my eyes a minute or two ago.”

The Earl’s surprised gaze obediently followed the direction of her pointing finger, and alighted upon a length of thin, yet stout, cord, which lay on the ground across the avenue, to disappear into the thicket beyond.

“You will observe,” said Miss Morville dispassionately, “that the cord is attached to one of the lower branches of that tree upon your left hand. I have been trying to puzzle it out in my mind, and I am strongly of the opinion, my lord, that if the other end of the cord were to be held by some person standing concealed in the thicket to your right, it would be a simple matter for such a person suddenly to pull it taut across the path at the very moment when your horse was abreast of it.”

There was a moment’s silence; then the Earl said: “Your power of observation is acute, ma’am. But what a happiness to be assured that I fell from no negligence of my own!”

She seemed to approve of this light-hearted response, for she smiled, and said: “I am sure you must be much relieved, my lord.” She was then silent for a short space, adding presently: “To be attaching exaggerated importance to trifling circumstances is what I have no patience with, but I cannot conceal from you, my lord, that I do not at all like what has occurred!”

“You express yourself with praiseworthy moderation, Miss Morville,” Gervase returned, rising to his feet, and brushing the dirt from his coat. “I will own that for my part I dislike it excessively!”

“If,” she said, holding her hands rather tightly clasped in her lap, “I could rid my mind of the horrid suspicion that only my unlooked-for presence, here is the cause of your being alive at this moment, I should feel very much more comfortable.”

He held down his hand to her. “Come, get up, ma’am! You will take cold if you continue to sit on the damp ground. My case was not likely to be desperate, you know. I might, of course, have broken my neck, but the greater probability was that I should come off with a few bruises, as indeed I have, or with a broken limb at the worst.”

She accepted his assistance in rising to her feet, but said with a little asperity: “To be sure, there is not the least reason why you should credit me with common-sense, for I daresay I may never have warned you that although I am not bookish I have a tolerably good understanding! My fault is a lack of imagination which makes it impossible for me to believe that a cord was stretched across your path by some mischance — or even,” she added tartly, “by supernatural agency, so pray do not try to entertain me with any of your nonsensical ghost-stories, sir, for I am not in the mood for them!”

He laughed. “No, no, I know your mind to be hardened against them, ma’am! Let us admit at once that a cord was tied to that tree, and allowed to lie unnoticed across the avenue until my horse was abreast of it. There can be little doubt that it was then jerked tight, an action which, I judge, must have brought it to the level of Cloud’s knees. That he came down very suddenly I recall, and also that I was flung over his head.”

“Who did it?” she said abruptly.

“I don’t know, Miss Morville. Do you?”

She shook her head. “There was no one in sight when I ran out into the avenue. I looked for no one, for I had then no suspicion that the accident had been contrived, but I think I must have noticed anyone moving by the thicket.”

“You could not have done so had he stood behind the thicket. Was it long after I fell that you came up with me? By the by, where were you, ma’am? I did not see you!”

“No, for I was walking along that ride, coming from the village, you know,” she replied, nodding towards the path. “You would only have perceived me had you chanced to turn your head, and from the thicket I must have been wholly obscured. I heard the fall, and you may readily suppose that I wasted no time in running to the spot — it cannot have been more than a matter of seconds before I had reached the end of the ride. It must have been impossible for anyone to have had sufficient time between your fall and my coming into view to have removed that cord, or — ”

She stopped. He prompted her gently: “Or, Miss Morville?”

“Excuse me!” she begged. “I had nearly said what must have given you reason to suppose that I have a disordered intellect! I believe that the shock of seeing you stretched lifeless upon the ground has a little overset my nerves.”

“You mean, do you not, that the finishing blow might have been dealt me while I lay senseless, had you not been at hand to frighten away my assailant?”

“I did mean that,” she confessed. “The misadventure you escaped at the bridge the other day must have been in my mind, perhaps.”

So you knew about that!”

“Everyone knows of it. One of the servants heard your cousin rating Martin for — for his carelessness in forgetting to warn you. You must know how quickly gossip will spread in a large household! But if it was indeed Martin who brought your horse down, I am persuaded he did not mean to kill you!”

“Just a boyish prank, Miss Morville?” Gervase said.

“It was very bad, of course, for he could not know that the accident would not prove to be fatal. When his temper is roused, there is no saying what he will do. He seems not to care — But I own this goes beyond anything I should have thought it possible for him to do! There is no understanding it, for he is by no means a genius, so that we cannot excuse him on the score of eccentricity.”

His head was aching, but he was obliged to smile. “Is it your experience that geniuses are apt to perform such violent deeds, ma’am?”

“Well, they frequently behave very irrationally,” she replied. “History, I believe, affords us many examples of peculiar conduct on the part of those whose intellects are of an elevated order; and within my own knowledge there is the sad case of poor Miss Mary Lamb, who murdered her mama, in a fit of aberration. Then, too, Miss Wollstonecraft, who was once a friend of my mother’s, cast herself into the Thames, and she,you know, had a most superior intellect.”

“Cast herself into the Thames!” echoed the Earl.

“Yes, at Putney. She had meant to commit the dreadful deed at Battersea, but found the bridge there too crowded, and so was obliged to row herself to Putney. She was picked up by a passing boat, and afterwards married Mr. Godwin, which quite turned her thoughts from suicide. Not that I should have thought it a preferable fate,” said Miss Morville reflectively, “but, then, I am not at all partial to Mr. Godwin. In fact, though I never met him — nor, indeed, Miss Wollstonecraft, either — I have often thought I should have liked Mr. Imlay better than Mr. Godwin. He was an American, with whom Miss Wollstonecraft had an unhappy connection, and although a great many harsh things have been said about him, Mama has always maintained that most of the trouble arose from Miss Wollstonecraft’s determination to make him an elm-tree round which she might throw her tendrils. Very few gentlemen could, I believe, support for long so arduous a role.”

“I find myself, as always, in entire agreement with you, Miss Morville,” he said gravely. “But do you wish me to suppose that a deranged mind was responsible for my accident?”

“By no means. Martin has too little control over his passions, but he cannot be thought to be deranged. Indeed, I cannot account for your accident, except by a solution which I am persuaded is not the correct one.”

He smiled slightly. “I have a great dependence on your discretion, Miss Morville. We shall say, if you please, that I was so heedless as to let Cloud set his foot in a rabbit-hole. Meanwhile, I think it would be well if I gathered up this cord, and stowed it away in my pocket.”

She watched him do so in silence, but when he had untied the cord from about the tree, and had returned to her, she said: “I think you perfectly able to manage your own affairs, my lord, and I shall certainly not interfere in them. But, absurd though it may seem to you, this incident has made me feel apprehensive, and I do trust that you will take care how you expose yourself while you remain at Stanyon!”

“Why, yes, to the best of my power I will do so,” he answered. “But nothing will be gained through my noising this trick abroad: whoever was responsible for it knows that his design was frustrated, and he is not very likely to betray himself. I must suppose that everyone at Stanyon knew that I should return to the Castle by this road. Who, by the way, knew of your visit to the village?”

“No one, and only Marianne and Lord Ulverston can have known that I went to Gilbourne House.”

“That is no help at all. I never suspected Lucy of wishing to put a period to my life!” he said, smiling.