Maulever Hall (5 page)

As a result she had walked about all morning in the slight state of remoteness that a bad night leaves behind it, and now the small print wavered before her eyes. Sir Walter was going his usual leisurely way about starting his book: his two mysterious travelers were somewhere in Europe
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there were descriptions
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digressions
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more descriptions
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Thomas had grown tired of his pudding and was playing an elaborate incomprehensible game on the verge of the wood. The sun had grown warmer, she leaned back more comfortably against the tree trunk that supported her and let her eyes flicker shut. Her dreams continued the journey of the two travelers, but now it was the bleak moor they were crossing, not the Swiss Alps. The dream turned nightmare, the terror was upon her again with the sound of galloping hoofs, an angry shout
...
Then she was awake, still shivering with fright in the warm spring sunshine.

The angry voice was not a dream; she could hear it still, and little Thomas crying. She jumped to her feet and hurried m the direction from which the sound came. Rounding a corner of the wood, she stopped, appalled. Silhouetted against the light, a tall, black-haired, dark-faced man on a big brown horse was shouting furiously at little Thomas who had found himself a fine new game—making tracks in the luxuriant hay. He had even, by the look of things, been rolling in it, and had, indeed, done a remarkable amount of damage for so small a child, but nothing—she advanced angrily—nothing could justify so furious a tone to so small and helpless a child. The stranger’s arm was raised, now, as if to strike the child, who turned, with a little gasp of fright, saw Marianne, and ran to her.

She put a hand reassuringly in his and confronted the man, her color high with anger. “If you must strike someone,” she said, “let it be me. It is my fault the child has done the damage. And anyway”—dream-terror was forgotten in real anger now—“what right have you to be here, acting the bully? This is a private path leading to Maulever Hall and I have no doubt that great horse of yours has done quite as much damage to the hay as little Thomas here.”

Disconcertingly, the stranger laughed and swung round on the big horse to face her. “Trespassing, am I? And are you the dragon that guards the path?”

She stifled a little gasp. She could see his face now, one side darkly handsome, the other horribly marred by a great scar across the cheek. Shocked, she felt anger ebbing out of her. “Yes,” she said again, “this is a private way. You must go back the way you have come.”

“And damage the hay still more?” He was still laughing at her. “And what will you do, my dear dragon, if I tell you I have business at Maulever Hall?”

“I shall tell you that you should have come in by the main gates,” she said crisply. “This path is used only by the family. Mrs. Mauleverer will be far from pleased when she hears of the liberty you have taken.”

“Do you think so indeed? Now, it’s an odd thing, but I think her reaction will be quite other. But it is not fair to tease you so.” He lifted the beaver hat from his thickly curling hair and made her a courteous bow. “How do you do, Miss Lamb. Will you forgive me for frightening your”—he paused for a moment—“your charge.”

‘“Miss Lamb?”’ she said. “You know me? You cannot be
...”

“Precisely,” he said. “Mauleverer, and very much at your service. But amazed, I must confess, that not one of the women over there”—he gestured to where the Hall lay hidden beyond the woods—“should have told you how—unmistakable I am.”

She colored angrily. What could she answer to this? Then,
c
ollect
in
g herself: “I must apologize, sir, for greeting you so rudely, but truly we had no cause to expect you so soon.”

“My mother been grumbling that I never write to her?” he asked carelessly. “Well, what’s the use of telling her I am coming, when it merely means she will fret herself into hysterics if I am so much as five minutes late. As it is, I trust I will surprise her more pleasantly than I did you. I am sorry I frightened the child so, but I thought
him
one of the cottagers, trespassing shamelessly.”

Now she was angry again. “Of course,” she said, high-colored, “striking a cottager’s child would be
nothing
out of the way. What is a blow more or less to
them
!”
And then, appalled at what she had let herself say, she was trying to sta
m
mer out an apology when he interrupted her.

No, no, Miss Lamb, do not apologize. You
think
me a savage, and, I suppose, with cause. It is no use telling you now that I had no intention of striking the child, so I will merely
sa
y goodbye until, as I have no doubt we must, we meet again. Have I your permission, now, to continue my journey?”

She and Thomas were blocking his path. She muttered another scarce intelligible apology, moved aside and watched him
rid
e on, silently furious at once with herself and with him. So that was the adored Mark Mauleverer! Well, his behavior had confirmed all the bad opinions she had had of him and she could only hope that his stay this time would be as selfishly short as usual. Of course he had been going to strike the child and she could only wonder, in passing, how on earth he came to be so popular with the villagers if this was the way he treated them. But no doubt it was just because he was here so seldom.

Thomas was tired and fretful after his fright, and
longing
to go home, but though her peaceful afternoon was irrevocably spoiled, she lingered in the wood as long as she could, putting off the awkward moment of return and confrontation. Not that
he
would find it awkward. He was obviously equally devoid of shyness and of shame
. F
eeding on her anger, she entertained Thomas as best she could by helping him to collect empty snail shells, but he was soon crying with fatigue and there was nothing for it but to pick him up and head for home.

Home! She stopped for a moment. Home! It had never been more than a temporary refuge, but seemed an even more unpromising one now that its master was come back. Oh if only she could remember ...

What she did remember was that the bad-tempered master of Maulever Hall was going to find his ancestral home in a state of unexampled chaos. The sweep had doubtless finished his work by now—always provided that his boy had not got stuck, or worse still lost in one of the proliferating chimneys of the old house. But the results of his labors in dirt and confusion would be with them, she feared, for some days, specially since the servants were so obviously resentful of the extra labor involved.

She took Thomas in through the kitchen, on the pretext of collecting some supper for him on the way. She hardly admitted even to herself that she wished to avoid meeting Mauleverer again until she had had time to change her crumpled dress and tidy her disheveled hair. To her surprise, she found the kitchen and servants’ hall in a state of unwontedly cheerful bustle. A scullery maid was plucking chickens as if her life depended on it, the cook was busy over a perfect battery of copper saucepans, and such a polishing of glass and silverware was going on as if they were to entertain the whole county. With a conscience-stricken start, Marianne realized that in her capacity as housekeeper she should have hurried home to direct operations as soon as she had parted from Mauleverer. Oh well, she shrugged to herself, things seemed to have gone on admirably without her.

“Master’s home.” The cook turned from the huge stove and saw her. “We dine late. He always does. You’d best take something as well as the boy, or you’ll be famished before it’s ready. Not but what it will be worth the waiting for, I promise you.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Marianne, sniffing appreciatively. “But I’ll not be eating with them. I’ll fetch myself something on a tray when Thomas is in bed.”

“Oh?” The cook shrugged. “You know best, I’m sure. Oh, drat the sauce.” She bent, red-faced, to her work.

Marianne
took Thomas up the back stairs, got him, protesting but weary, into his bed and reached the safety of her own room with a sigh of relief. A quick recourse to her glass confirmed her worst fears. Her bonnet had got tilted to one side when she was playing with Thomas, her hair was wildly untidy and there was a smudge of something on her left cheek. No wonder he had called her a dragon, though hoyden would have been nearer the mark.

Of course she would not meet him this evening, but it would have made for peace of mind if only she had had something respectable to put on, just for safety’s sake. She looked
gloomily in her closet where hung the two limp brown stuff dresses and the cotton that was almost exact twin to the one she had on. On so mild an evening she had no choice. It would have to be the cotton, which, at least, she had just washed, starched and ironed as exquisitely as if it had been finest India muslin. She put it on rebelliously. These were not, somehow, her kind of clothes ... Or was she deluding herself? Was it only in dreams that she had once worn silks and gauzes? Very likely. She shrugged irritably and went to work with a will on her rebellious hair. Her hands, working almost without her volition, were doing something different with her curls tonight. Mrs. Mauleverer, in the enthusiasm of turning out her wardrobe, had made her a present of various bits of tarnished ribbon and lace. Most of them, though she had, of course, received them with proper exclamations of delight, were fit only for the Jew’s basket, but she had kept out one length of silver tissue as more promising than the rest, and had contrived to clean it with soft soap and honey. Now, she bound it round a coronet of hair on the top of her head, leaving only short curls to cluster round her face. The result, her glass told her, was charming—but totally unsuited to her plain, high-necked dress. She exclaimed angrily and was about to pull down the whole elaborate erection when Mrs. Mauleverer burst into her room. “There you are at last, my dear. I was quite giving you up in despair.” And then, in obvious surprise: Why, you look charming. What have you done to your hair?”

“
I was only playing with it.” Marianne hurried to draw up her one comfortable chair for Mrs. Mauleverer, who settled into it with a little sigh of what was intended to suggest exhaustion.

“Such a bustle as we have been in,” she said. “And you, wicked girl, not there to help. But, of course, you do not know the great news. Mark is come home.”

Yes, they told me
...
” So he had not mentioned his meeting with her. Well, that was kind of him, perhaps. Since he could say nothing good, he had said nothing at all about her.

“Yes, rode in as cool as a cucumber just when I had finished my luncheon, and the sweep still here, and the whole house
in
dust sheets, and my poor Gibbs almost in hysterics. I really thought I should have a spasm myself, but he has a wonderful way of taking charge, has Mark. I wish you could have heard what he said to that poor sweep, it would have done your heart good, my dear, after all your sighings over the little boy—an imp of satan if ever I saw one, by the way, and left soot marks all over my bedroom carpet. But he’s to have baths, and Sunday school, and I don’t know what not, or Mark will know the reason why. You never saw so surprised a man as poor Mr. Bond. Though I expect the child will be more astonished still when he gets his first bath—if ever he does. The trouble with Mark is that he has so many irons in the fire that most of them get cold when he’s not looking. But, dear me, where was I? I came to tell you something most particular, and now I have quite forgot what it was.” She paused, pleating the frills that ornamented the front of her purple satin dinner dress. “Ah, I have it. Dinner, of course. We dine late, you know, when Mark is home. He has town ways and will agree to no other.”

“Yes, Cook told me. But of course I shall have a tray in my room.”

“Nonsense. Mark is quite longing to meet you; he said so himself. He says I look years younger”—she rose to prove the satisfactory truth at the glass—“and do you know, I agree with him. I must try my hair the way you have done yours. You shall do it for me tomorrow; I am sure it will be vastly becoming to me. I only wish there were time tonight; we could pass as sisters, could we not? But Mark is a perfect tyrant for punctuality; we had best not risk it. What a fortunate thing you are”—she hesitated—“dressed.”

It was the cue Marianne wanted. “My dear madam, you must excuse me from dining. You know perfectly well that I have nothing to wear ... I cannot appear like this ... it would be quite unsuitable.”

“I confess I wish I had thought of it sooner. Perhaps my old gray
silk?
But, no, you are inches taller than me; it would merely look ridiculous. No, no, my dear, you must not refine too much upon it; you look charming, as indeed, you always do.” She turned from the glass as the gong sounded below. “There, Mark will be waiting in the drawing room. Come, my dear.”

IV

The sight of Mark Mauleverer waiting for them by the huge fire that had been kindled in the drawing room did nothing to make Marianne feel better about her own shabby appearance. This afternoon he had been muffled in a heavy riding cloak. Now, an elegant but not too closely fitted dark blue coat showed off a fine pair of shoulders and did full justice to a spare, athletic figure. His cravat was snowy white, but not overcomplicated, his waistcoat innocent of embroidery, his studs in the most exact of taste. If she had wanted to, she could have found no fault with his appearance. She did want to—but, as so often she stopped at the thought—how did she know what he ought to look like?