IT HAS BEEN said that the history of mankind is divided equally between the sublime and the ridiculous. Surely as many great wars, resulting in untold horrors and death, had their beginnings in a comedy of errors as those begun by the thoughtful decisions of wise men. Individual lives are often conducted in the same fashion.
The unfortunate Mr. Wayland, limping back to his vicarage across the meadow, could hardly have guessed what a dire effect the sight of him had had upon Admiral Trevor. Most certainly he could not have imagined that one look at the Vicar, with his hair plastered down upon his prematurely balding pate and his arms sawing the air in eloquent gesticulation, had caused the stern old officer to revise his opinion of an ancient quarrel.
Many years before, when the Admiral had been a penniless ensign, he had fallen in love with a young lady from one of England’s noblest houses. Though herself without fortune, Miss Ramblay had been the favorite of her uncle, the family’s head and a Viscount besides. Lord Ramblay had opposed the match from the start, and when it looked as if his niece would not give up her attachment, he had written her out of his will and out of his heart. He had intended leaving her a handsome legacy, but his pride was such that he could not bear any hint of disobedience, and when the young people married despite him, he would not hear her name mentioned in his presence. Young Trevor soon began to make his mark in the Navy, and his fortunes grew in proportion to his rank, but still a bitter resentment persisted between the two families. Even after Mrs. Trevor died, shortly following the birth of a daughter, her husband carried on the feud, refusing to recognize his wife’s relations and growing angry at the mere mention of the Viscount’s name.
Maggie Trevor grew up without any knowledge of her cousins save that they were very rich, and very proud, and cared nothing about her. She had heard how cruel they had been to her mother, and harbored a natural bitterness against them, encouraged by her father.
Some time ago the old Viscount had died, and an only son had come into the title. Admiral Trevor heard the news and paid it no attention, for his feelings were firmly fixed. A letter arriving soon afterward from the new Lord Ramblay, in which was expressed a keen regret for his father’s conduct and a warm desire to see the quarrel ended and harmony restored between the families, had been torn up and was never answered. And yet the matter had been in Admiral Trevor’s mind increasingly of late, and he had begun to regret having missed the chance to renew his relations with his wife’s family.
Admiral Trevor was very proud, and very stubborn, too. On his own account he could never have been induced to change his opinion of the Ramblays, but for his daughter, who was the joy of his existence and the pride of his old age, he would have done almost anything. For two and twenty years Maggie had been his sole companion, advisor, and confidante. She had nursed him in times of sickness, and provided a home where he was proud to entertain his friends and fellow officers. She managed his house and filled his idle hours with laughter. She was generally considered to be clever and beautiful, but to her father she was the very perfection of womanhood. If anyone had dared hint to him that she had her share of flaws, like other mortals, he would have bellowed out in rage. He loved in her that same fiery independent nature which he himself possessed, but the refinement and sensibility, which she had inherited from her mother, he held in awe.
For his daughter’s sake he had bought a house in Sussex, although the country bored him to distraction, so that she might be the daughter of a landed gentleman. He had hoped, in removing her from the society of officers at Portsmouth, that she might marry a more eligible man. But the neighborhood in which they now lived offered no improvement: quite the opposite, for where at Portsmouth there had been a constant round of dinners and dances, outdoor fetes, and a continual stream of callers, here there was hardly any amusement at all. He dearly wanted her to marry well, even if it meant parting with her company himself—even if it required forgetting his old quarrel with Lord Ramblay. The Ramblays he knew to be among the first families of the ton. Elegant, fashionable, and worldly, they could offer Maggie entrance into great society, where the Admiral believed she naturally belonged.
Having that very morning witnesssed his beloved daughter in the company of possibly the hugest idiot in England had done much to sober him. He had been forced to wonder what would happen to her if she remained here with him in Sussex. Hideous though the possibility seemed, was not it altogether likely she would one day be, if not an old maid whose chief diversion lay in visiting about the neighborhood, the wife of just such a pedantic coxcomb as the Vicar?
“By Jupiter, I have been a selfish wretch!” he thought to himself. “Placing my own pride above Maggie’s future, and in securing to myself her company, perhaps sacrificing her happiness!”
The thought eased the way to writing the letter, which otherwise would have demanded more masking of his real feelings than the Admiral was capable of. The letter was posted that very afternoon, and within a fortnight he had his reply. Lord Ramblay’s letter was written out upon a sheet of heavy parchment that bore the family crest. The hand was at once bold and fine, but the tone so distant, even in its civility, that the Admiral was a little chagrined. While there was nothing absolutely cold about it, yet it had not that warmth which the former letter had possessed in abundance. The Admiral, however, set more store by action than innuendo, and when he saw that the Viscount had appended an invitation to his daughter, he could not criticize anything in the rest of the communication. The invitation was all Admiral Trevor had looked for—had even hinted at—and when he had done reading, he went at once to find his daughter.
Maggie, driven indoors by a heavy shower which now beat rhythmically at the windows, was discovered in the music room laboring over her pianoforte.
“What a pretty air that is!” declared the Admiral as he walked in, for he was a great admirer of Maggie’s talents.
Maggie replied with a rueful smile, “How lucky it is you are my father and have not an ear for music,” she laughed. “For if you had, you would know how badly I play, and if you were not my father, you would not hesitate to tell me so!”
“Nonsense, nonsense, my dear!” replied the Admiral in a jovial tone. “No one plays so well as you! Everyone was always saying so at Portsmouth!”
“At Portsmouth no one had ever heard anything better. But I am afraid if they had, they should have seen me for what I was—a great enjoyer of music, without any real proficiency of my own. I do really wish I could play better, for it would be a great pastime now we are in the country.”
“You are very fond of music, my dear, ain’t you?” inquired the Admiral, finding a chair for himself near the instrument.
“Oh, no one could be fonder of music than I am,” replied Maggie. “That is—fond of the performances of others, when they are worth liking. It is a great pity I cannot play better, for I have taste enough to perceive what is excellent, but not skill enough to imitate it.”
The Admiral would not hear of this, but he inquired if his daughter would not be delighted by the opportunity of a great deal of good music and to enjoy, besides, a great deal of good conversation.
“I do not know of anyone who could resist such a combination of delights!” responded Maggie playfully. “But, have you come in only to tease me, Papa? I hope you have not, for there is no one who talks well in the neighborhood—unless you count Mr. Wayland, who makes up in quantity what he misses in quality—and only the Miss Durbens play to any degree.”
“Ah, Mr. Wayland,” moaned the Admiral, his face growing red. “I wish you would not mention him, my dear! But, I did not come in to tease you, nor to discuss that pompous fool. I came to tell you of an invitation you have received.”
“An invitation, Father?”
“To Essex.”
“To Essex!”
“And then to London, for the winter season.”
Maggie was too astonished to say anything for a moment.
“But I know no one who lives in Essex, sir!”
“But you ought to do. Indeed, had it not been for my stupidity, you should have had friends there these many years. But I shan’t leave you in suspense, my dear. The invitation is from your cousin, the Viscount Ramblay, who very kindly requests your company for the whole winter.”
“Not the Lord Ramblay you detest, Papa?” cried Maggie in amazement. “I thought you would never speak to him again!”
“And so I should not have, only this is not the old curmudgeon, but his son.”
And then the Admiral recounted the whole story of the correspondence, only changing, for Maggie’s benefit, the date of the first letter, which, out of desire to conceal his own vanity, he reported as having come a few weeks before and inspiring his own reply. Maggie was all astonishment at the news of the reconciliation, and happy admiration of the son who would bridge the gap initiated by his father. She would not rest until she had seen what sort of letter he had written, and the Admiral, having only the second to give her, and that one so cold, endeavored to put her off. But Maggie would have her way, and in the end the Admiral was forced to hand his correspondence over.
The letter was read at one glance, and then read over with greater care. On finishing it, Maggie said nothing, but her father exclaimed:
“Is not it an admirable piece of work? I never knew such a fine letter!”
“To be sure the hand is very good,” replied Maggie with some restraint, “and the paper is the best parchment.”
“But the invitation!” cried her father impatiently, “is not it generous?”
Maggie did not respond to the question, but asked one of her own: “I suppose you wrote him a long letter, and were very open?”
Astonished, the Admiral replied his letter had been as long as it ought, and that he had been as open as possible, considering the circumstances.
“Just so,” thought Maggie. “Papa has written one of his long letters, begging my cousin to introduce me to Society. And in response, he has got this: a short, cold, civil piece of writing, sent more from duty than desire. Lord Ramblay does not want me for the winter, he only wants to assuage his guilt. He would be delighted if the invitation were refused, which he cannot hope it will be.”
But to her father, she said: “Do not you think the tone a little cold, Papa? If I was my cousin and wished to heal such a breach as existed between you and his father, I should be a little more warm in my solicitations.”
“Oh!” cried the Admiral, “It is only his way. His first letter was in the same style, though much longer. He is one of your noble young what-d’you-callums—I suppose he would behave the same, no matter what. But the invitation, my dear! What do you say? Is not it a grand one?”
Maggie knew her father very well, and from long observation of him, she could detect what was in his mind no matter how he endeavored to conceal it. She saw now that it was his dearest wish that she should go to Essex, and then to London, but a vague unease prevented her desiring the visit herself. To go to London for the winter was indeed a happy thought! To spend the time in the company of friends, who loved her company and longed to see her, would have been her greatest delight. Who could think otherwise? So much entertainment, so many new faces, such an altogether delightful prospect! But to go, only to be a burden to people who did not want her and had only asked her out of a sense of what they ought to do, rather than what they wished—what a different kind of prospect!
“I had rather not go, Papa,” she murmured.
“What! Not go to Town with Lord Ramblay? But of course you must go! I will not hear of your not going! What! Refuse such an invitation!”
Maggie saw that she was beaten, even before she had begun to struggle. Torn equally between a desire to please her father and a deeper loyalty to him and his long-standing prejudices, she could only say she would make the journey, and wonder inwardly what kind of a torture it would be.
But the Admiral was beaming, for he could not have suspected her doubts. “Go! Of course you shall go, and gallivant about the place to your heart’s content! Why, I wish I could be there to see their faces when they glimpse you! I suppose they expect some country cousin or other! Imagine what their surprise will be, when they see you are the finest young lady in the place!”
Maggie smiled at her father’s complacency and said nothing. He rattled on, talking of plans for the journey, and at last went off to write his letter to Lord Ramblay to say when she would arrive.
“For it does no good to dawdle about, child! One had better strike while the iron is hot, as your Mama used to say! I shall tell him you will be there within the fortnight, so you shall have a week or two at Essex before going on to Town.”
With these words the Admiral strode out of the room, conscious that he had done all he could to secure his daughter’s happiness, and certain of her ability to impress all her cousins with her elegance and beauty.
But Maggie, passing the afternoon in what ought to have been the delightful business of looking over her wardrobe for the journey, felt none of her father’s delight. With the help of her maid she had laid out all her clothes upon her bed, and now, standing looking down at them with the desultory drumming of the rain in her ears and a great many thoughts waging war in her head, she felt suddenly exceedingly low.
“A fine country cousin I shall make, indeed!” she said to herself, holding up before her in front of the glass a jonquil silk dress she had thought very elegant when she had had it made up in Portsmouth. Now it seemed to her plain and drab, and the place where it had been altered a month before was painfully visible. She made a mock curtsey, and grimaced.
“I hope you are satisfied, Cousin,” she said. “Now you see what a fine piece of work you have made! You did not want me to come and now you are sorry for inviting me! Five decent gowns to my name, and the best of those not fit to be seen at Almack’s!”
This was a very different Maggie Trevor from the one who, for so many years, had scoffed at spending above fifty pounds a year to dress herself. She had never cared much what she wore so long as she was neat and comfortable, and, because she possessed a beautiful carriage and was tall and graceful, with a proud way of holding her head, the Admiral had often marveled at how well she looked. She hated frills and furbelows, for they made movement difficult, and Maggie was in constant motion, even when she was still. Her few jewels—a cameo or two, a slender necklace of diamonds and pearls, and an amethyst pendant that had belonged to her mother—were hardly ever worn, save for the most formal occasions. Now she keenly regretted having held so low opinion of those females who spent half their lives wondering what they should wear in the other half. Oh! Not for herself, to be sure—what cared she if Lord Ramblay disapproved of her? But the idea that her father might be included in her own embarrassment was too painful a thought to bear. No, for him, she now slumped down upon her bed, the jonquil silk still clutched in her hands, a mortified expression in her face at the thought of how she would compare to those elegant women to whose company her cousin was no doubt used.
It was not alone on account of her clothes that Maggie felt so low. Her knowledge and attainments, though great enough at Portsmouth, where she had been accounted among the most accomplished young ladies in the town, were not, she knew, sufficient for the likes of her cousins and their friends. She had a great love of reading, and had devoured a great many books in her life, but without any kind of formal guidance or discipline. Her taste in drawing and music sprang more from her innate understanding of what a thing ought to be than from training, and while she delighted in everything beautiful she saw or heard about her, she could not have told anyone why. No one knew better than she that her manner of playing the pianoforte was more like doing battle with the music than performing, and, conscious of the fact, she was loath to display her skill before others, try as her father would to coax her into it. Her patience was so limited, and her enthusiasm so great, that she could not be persuaded to practice above half an hour together before the beauty of the day or some other occupation called her away. When she had failed to master a whole concerto in that time, or even the first movement, she would say, with a rueful smile: “Clearly I have no talent in this direction. Let others, who have real skill, perform—I shall enjoy the lesser talent of appreciating their accomplishments!”
Such had been her attitude throughout her life, and, while she had lived twenty-two years very happily with the philosophy, she had now to regret it.
“What an awkward wretch they shall think me!” she lamented. And with such kinds of self-criticisms and worries she passed an hour in futile misery. But Maggie was a girl so little given to regretting what she could not change, and her disposition was so inclined to happiness, that more than an hour she could not give to such remonstrations. At the end of that time she stood up with a determined light in her hazel eyes and a mischievous smile on her lips. Glancing into the mirror, she held up the unfortunate jonquil silk once more, and proceeded to do a fast jig about her bedroom. At the end of this exercise she was laughing inwardly, and her face was animated with amusement. Stopping now before her glass, she made a grimace at her own reflection, which returned to her the sight of a young lady radiant with good health and a joy in living, her thick auburn hair coming down a little from its pins, her hazel eyes dancing, and her generous mouth curved up at the corners.
She would not make herself miserable on their account any longer! What, was she to feel ashamed, only because she had never cared enough about what she wore to have a closet full of gowns in the latest style? Was she to lament the fact that she was not an expert, either at the pianoforte or the drawing table? No! What were such accomplishments in comparison with a warm heart and a desire to be liked? “Let them take me as they find me!” she declared out loud. “I shan’t do anything to make them think better of me in that vein. If they count fashion and music above common courtesy to their relations, I shall not mind being despised by them!”
So saying, she set about her packing with a renewed vigor and good humor. Having once decided to do nothing extraordinary in the way of improvements to her wardrobe, Maggie almost went so far as to turn away one gown for the fault of its possessing too many silk ribbons, which very nearly made it verge upon the stylish. If, in the natural defiance of her temperament and her loyalty to the Admiral, she was a little more determined to dislike her cousin than she might have been, one very great advantage of the journey did occur to her. Mr. Wayland, for all his avowals that he should not plague her any more, had been nearly as omnipresent as he had been before his proposal. To be sure, he had not called at the manor house, but Maggie had not been able to walk into the village without seeing his resentful countenance. On the previous Sunday he had walked right past her in church without so much as a glance, but his face was so full of his feelings that Maggie would really have preferred one of his lectures. To be removed from that would be a comfort indeed, and she hoped that by the time she returned from her visit he might have forgotten his bitterness and forgiven her.
There was much to do in preparation for the journey, for Maggie had the whole house to see to, and the servants must be given instructions for the period of her absence. Nearly a fortnight was required for this, and one day—nearly the last one before she was to quit Sussex—a servant came to her as she was in the storeroom with the housekeeper.
“Mr. Wayland is here from the village to see you, miss,” said the maid. Startled, Maggie demanded if this was really the case. She could not conceive of his pride allowing him to visit her so soon after he had been rejected. Only the most urgent business could have brought him, she was sure. Thinking there must have been some death, or that an illness had broken out among the local residents, she went upstairs without pausing to tidy her hair or change her frock.
Mr. Wayland was waiting in the morning room. His manner, as he bowed, was stiff and formal, and the elaborations of his greeting so pointed that they seemed to be meant as a punishment. Hemming and hawing for a shorter time than usual, however, the Vicar commenced:
“I should not have intruded upon you, Miss Trevor,” said he, in the self-important tone which was his wont, “if I had not had a great piece of news to impart. I would not for all the world have disturbed you in any other case.”
Maggie murmured that she would never consider the Vicar an intruder.
“How kind you are!” declared the clergyman, but with a look that contradicted his utterance. “You were not once so kind,” his eyes seemed to say, but, much to Maggie’s relief, his lips were soon occupied in saying something else.
“I came, in short, merely to tell you, for I thought you might still have some interest in the case, that I have received the living I mentioned to you.”
“How very fortunate for you!” cried Maggie. “But I do not recall any such living. Perhaps you did not mention it to me?”
Mr. Wayland was very sure he had mentioned it, mentioned it, in fact, at some length and in detail. But he only smiled icily, and said, “Oh! I thought you knew all about it. It is the very living I had hoped for, and now, through a lucky stroke, I have got it just at the time I wished most to be removed from the neighborhood.”
This last was muttered with an accusing look, and Maggie saw at once that the chief purpose of the interview was intended to be a punishment of herself.
“How delightful! I hope it is a good situation?”
“As excellent a one as I could wish,” pronounced the Vicar primly. “Indeed, even had I not the desire to live elsewhere, I should have been happy to take it, for the post itself is among the most important in the vicinity of London, and the family one of the finest in the whole kingdom. The park and grounds are, as I believe I mentioned, most beautiful. The castle is ancient, but has many modern conveniences, and the whole situation is so advantageous for a man of my tastes that I am quite overjoyed. The lady of the family is, besides, so exceedingly condescending, such an elegant personage in every wise, that she has offered me the use of the park at any time, and hinted that I shall be almost a member of the family.”
“How very fortunate for you!” cried Maggie, as warmly as she could. “It will be a great thing to have such friends in a new home. And where is the living to be held?”
“In the county of Essex!”
“In Essex!” Maggie had just been considering the irony of fate, which was to remove Mr. Wayland from the vicinity just when she had no need of his removal. “What a coincidence, for I go to Essex myself the day after tomorrow, on a visit to my cousins.”
The coincidence struck Mr. Wayland as ironic, too. However, since he was now in a position to patronize his old inamorata, he determined to be generous.
“How astonishing! It is likely your cousins will not be within easy reach of my new living, or I should certainly invite you to drive in our park. I think you would be most pleased with it, for the land has been laid out very cleverly.”
Maggie expressed her regret that, since she would certainly be occupied a great deal with her relatives, she could not take advantage of such a generous invitation. Mr. Wayland passed a quarter of an hour enumerating all the many points on which he might be congratulated for obtaining so choice a living, and when he felt he had punished Miss Trevor enough, he rose to go. His manner seemed to relent a little at the door, however, for as he had his hand upon the knob, he turned around and inquired in what part of Essex Miss Trevor would be.
“I go to Ramblay Castle, near Debbens,” replied Maggie, not at all displeased, after all Mr. Wayland’s boasting, to be able to claim her relatives as inhabiting a castle themselves.
But Mr. Wayland appeared to have been taken suddenly ill. His small eyes grew round in disbelief, what little color there had been in his cheeks drained away, and clutching at his heart, he spluttered—“Ramblay! Good God! It is the very location of my living!”