MISS HAVERSHAM POSSESSED, besides beauty of a most un-ordinary kind, the sort of look which is so proud, so forthright, and so dignified, that her whole mien seemed to speak the truth. Her figure was tall and elegant, and stately even in its slenderness. Her shoulders—wider than most women’s—were held back in an almost military fashion, and the expression in her remarkable eyes was so candid as to make anyone who looked at them positive that she was incapable of telling a lie. There was a softness about the mouth, too, which many did not notice at first. But those who had had the opportunity of gazing at that face for very long, must have noticed it, and when they did, must have seen there traces of sensibility which did not leap out at first acquaintance with the lady. She was so often silent, and her silence seemed so haughty (though on knowing her better, Maggie decided that the attitude was more one of absolute self-discipline than real haughtiness) that many must have thought her incapable of that sweetness of nature which is a woman’s chief attraction. Sweet she most certainly was not. No resemblance did she possess either to a flower or a dainty, unless the flower were one so tall and proud and regal—a calla lily, perhaps—that it grew with as much sober dignity as she, or the dainty so rare and delicate that it could not be gobbled up without a moment’s hesitation at wreaking damage on so splendid a creation. And yet there was sweetness in her—or rather, softness. It was just this quality that most struck Maggie as she listened, all amazement, to her friend’s next words.
Miss Haversham spoke plainly, almost defiantly, but in her attitude there was something almost pleading, and it could not help but touch her friend.
“I asked you a moment ago,” Miss Haversham began, staring fixedly at her companion, “if you had read any of these books—” gesturing at the shelves. “You replied you had read only a smattering of them—Chaucer, Shakespeare, Moliere—and that your knowledge was acquired almost by hazard. My knowledge of the world has been acquired in the same fashion—though not, as you have done, with the help of a devoted father, or in the luxury of a happy home. All my knowledge has been forced upon me, as a fish must learn to swim and to forage for food among the tiny growing things in the ocean—in order to live. I am not, you see, at all what I seem to be.”
Miss Haversham paused for a moment, seeming to search Maggie’s eyes for an indication of her thoughts, but seeing there only encouragement and concern, she turned away and moved to a window, where she stood for some moments looking out in silence. At last a low laugh issued from her lips.
“It is not a bad joke,” she said, as if to herself. And then, seeming to remember she was not alone, made a gesture of her hand in the air.
“This is not my world, although I have learned its rules so well that I am among the few allowed to disobey them. In fact, it is just that which let me enter it: The haute ton is in truth a very dull place to live. Any surprising or novel person—so long as she does not absolutely violate the first decree of it leaders—is instantly welcomed in for the sake of diversion. I was just such a one, although not by intent. At first I did not understand them, and was not much interested in what they thought of me. That was my first great stroke. To people who have been obsessed for so long with their own importance, it was an awakening to discover one who was not. And then I learned that, the more cold I was, the less attention I paid them, the greater value was put on any attention I did pay. But I have gone ahead of myself. I meant to tell you how I came to inhabit this elevated world into which I was neither born nor brought up.”
Miss Haversham paused again, collecting her thoughts.
“My father was a fish merchant in Carbury, on the outskirts of London. He was not poor, but neither was he rich. By dint of hard work and economy, he amassed what was in our world considered a reasonable fortune. Of course, by the standards of these people—and by your own, no doubt—it was penury. When I was just fifteen, both he and my mother died in an outbreak of cholera. My brother and I were cast upon our own fortunes and the charity of our friends. We had sufficient funds to live modestly, of course, and without any kind of luxury—but still to live. My brother was then nineteen, four years older than myself, and he at once joined the Navy. It was agreed between us that I should stay in London, keeping my father’s house, and looking after him when he was on leave. In order to increase our income a little. I also began to take in fine laundry work for ladies. Some of the people I worked for were members of the highest society, even of the court. But of course I had no opportunity to meet them. The laundry was brought in baskets by their servants, and taken away in the same fashion.
“A year passed without much incident. My brother was stationed at Liverpool, and was used to coming home on leave. But he began suddenly to appear less and less frequently. In look and temperament, we are exactly opposed. My brother is as fair as I am dark, and blessed with a gift for drawing others out which has naturally endeared him to all who knew him. His great charm and easy laughter had always been the envy of myself and the pride of our parents. But, as often happens, I think, his charm was allowed to take the place of those inner strengths which may sometimes make life difficult, but which are yet necessary if one is to live with honor. He had begun to make new friends in the Navy, and advancing rapidly through the ranks (for he was as clever as he was charming), must have fallen into the society of those richer than himself, and with less scruples. I did not see him for six months, and save for an occasional request for funds, heard nothing from him. At last, by accident, I heard he had been involved in some mischief and was in debt. I wrote to him, begging him for an explanation, but had no reply.
“In the end, frightened and unsure where to turn, I went myself to Liverpool, and heard, to my distress, what had occurred. The Captain of his vessel told me that my brother had been living above his means for some time. He had befriended some wealthier officers, taken to gambling, and was now seriously in debt. Although he would not at first agree to my coming, I managed to see him myself, and begged him to have a care. He laughed at my distress, saying the Captain was given to overstatement, and that he was nowhere nearly so badly off as I had feared. Certainly I wanted to believe him, and when he assured me that he would change his ways, I returned to London, much relieved in my heart, and took up my former life.
“For some time things went along as before. Charlie’s letters were more regular, and from all he said, I could only believe his habits were changed for good. He applied himself with new vigor to his career, and the proof of this was that he was soon offered a commission and had been granted a long leave in London before his next cruise. He came home only for a few days, in fact, and I was amazed to see him. He was changed almost beyond recognition: Where there had been a boy, here was a man, and a gentleman, besides. His clothes were so elegant I could hardly believe he had bought them with his wages. But he assured me that, having given off cards, he could afford a gentleman’s attire at last. In truth, I should not have believed him—but his manner was so merry, he seemed so happy, and above all, so solicitious of me—that I could not resist him. He was enraged that I should continue to take in ladies’ laundry, and bid me give it up as soon as possible. I protested—for I did not know how we could live without it—but he convinced me at last that his wages had increased so much that there was no need for it any more. In the end I agreed, only opposing his desire that I should take a larger house, where, as he put it, ‘he should not be ashamed to invite his friends.’
“That idea could not help but hurt me, but I still would not consent. It was just possible, if his wages had been so much increased, for me to give up work; but to take on a higher style of living so soon would have been to invite eventual penury. And so I agreed to take in no more laundry, but to remain in our old house. Charlie was dissatisfied, but finally consented to my decision. He went away, leaving me what I considered a small fortune—twenty pounds, I believe it was—to improve my wardrobe, with strict instructions to visit a lady in Chalmsford Square, who was known to be a wizard with a needle. No young girl, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, could have resisted such an order and, much to my regret, I did not.
“Now, as it happened, my reputation had begun to grow. I was to give up my work just when I was the most sought after, when ladies and gentlemen of the highest rank were eager for my services. So much so, in fact, that Mr. Brummel—you will have heard of him, no doubt—was curious to see what the uproar was about. He was renowned for his meticulous attention to his dress, and had been known to cast aside forty cravats for the fault of one crease or the tiniest fleck of dust. So meticulous was he, in fact, that before sending his cravats to be laundered, he wished to meet the girl whose hands would touch that sanctified stuff. He came to visit me without any warning, and with barely an introduction, walked in. I was too ignorant to know who he was, and thinking him a most uncouth fellow, ordered him away.
“Perhaps you have heard that Mr. Brummel himself made his reputation at court by outright incivility. The Prince dearly loves to be slandered by that tongue—it is accounted a great compliment to be upbraided by him for some minor point of dress or of conduct. Indeed, I believe there is not a being in the whole of London who would not swell with pride to be insulted by him. And yet—to insult Brummel! I believe no one would have the courage to do that! And yet here was I, a mere laundress, daring to order him away! He looked at me, and blinked with his great bulbous, pale eyes, and blinked again, and then put back his head and laughed. I had expected him to be insulted, but to laugh! I really did not know what to make of him.”
Miss Haversham paused, turning around for a moment and smiling at her companion. So immersed had Maggie been in the narration that she could only exclaim,
“Pray, do not stop! It is better than any novel I have read! You must tell me the rest.”
“Yes, I suppose it is better than a novel,” agreed Blanche Haversham, smiling. “And yet it is perfectly true, you know. Indeed, I wish it were not.
“In any case, Brummel—or the “beau” as he is called—made no move to leave. On the contrary. He set about making himself as much at home as possible, first requesting some refreshment—he was appalled that I had not any claret—and then requiring that I show him my work. I told him bluntly that I had no intention of doing so, and that I had given up laundering in any case. He seemed surprised at this, and wondered why. So outrageous was his conduct that in truth I was too astonished to resist him. I told him my brother had just been granted a commission in the Navy, and that he wished me to stop all manner of work. ‘An officer in the Navy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, then he is a gentleman!’ And if my brother was a gentleman, then I must be a lady. As I had always been taught to think of myself as a lady, even if I was not rich, this made me bridle. I said nothing, but was as cold as possible, and the colder I was, the more Brummel liked me.
“He began to look at me more closely, actually getting up and walking around me as if I were a horse. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, you are quite a beauty, my little laundress. You will do very well indeed.’ When I inquired what he meant, he only laughed and took his seat again. By this time, as you may well imagine, I was so enraged, so insulted, and yet so fascinated, that I could hardly have said a word even if I wanted to. I had no intention of flattering him by letting him see that I was curious what he meant, but neither did I intend letting him leave without—if not an apology (for I saw at once he was not a man to admit he had been uncivil), at the least an explanation. And at last it did come out—what he meant, that is. He proposed a scheme to me so outrageous that at first I could only stare at him. He had long had it in his mind, he said—in fact, it was the dearest wish of his deformed heart—to play a trick on that same Society which had turned him from the grandson of a blacksmith into the greatest lawmaker in the realm. Just how he was to accomplish this feat had been a subject of amusement for some time—but he had not decided just how to go about it until he saw me. Something had reminded him of a story he had once heard, in which a whole kingdom was deceived by a pauper, and it had given him the exact inspiration he required.
“You may well inquire why such a rake, a man who owed everything to Society, should seek his vengeance upon it, for in truth that is what he intended doing. Brummel’s motives are no business of mine. But I should guess, having seen what I now have of the Great World, that that is exactly what made him hate it. I have often observed—have not you?—that we are most likely to despise what has done most for us: It is the way of humankind to resent bitterly the charitable hands which are held out to us, which we would rather do without, and yet are prevented from resisting, either from poverty, or some other dire need of our hearts or minds.”
Miss Haversham paused, looking into the air, but in so abstracted a manner that Maggie could not help but think she was really looking into her own heart. And when she added, in so soft a voice that it was barely audible: “I could not have understood then what drove him on,” her listener was awed at the solemnity in her voice, and at the nearly tragic air which seemed to hang about her, as palpable as a cloak.
But now, as if realizing she had drifted too far away from her subject, Miss Haversham gave herself a shake and smiled in her old arch, almost ironic way.
“But I have left off my tale, and we have not much time. Brummel’s scheme was this: He wished to introduce me to Society, to parade me about as his latest ‘find,’ the new nonpareil of fashion, to show me off to the haughtiest ladies as prettier than they, more cognizant of fashion than they. To my astonished inquiry, What would they say when they discovered I was naught but a fish merchant’s daughter? he responded with a laugh—‘Never mind, my dear, I shall simply let them guess—and since they are all nearly as stupid as they are vain, they will naturally suppose you are highly born. How else, they will say, could she have learned so much? I shall let them think what they like, and they will certainly prefer to think you are of noble lineage than otherwise.’
“I really did not know what to say, but one thing was certain: I could never do as he asked, and this I told him. He seemed astonished at first that a girl as humble as I should refuse so easy an entrance into a world she could only have dreamed of hitherto. He gaped, and chided me, but at last, on seeing I was firm, merely left me his card and promised me that some day I should change my mind—when, as he put it, I ‘grew more sensible.’
“I could not imagine I would ever be ‘sensible’ enough to wish to be a mere pawn in the game of such a Machiavelli as Beau Brummel, and yet I was intrigued by the idea—much as I abhorred it, I was intrigued, and not a little flattered. The matter, however, did not stay long in my mind. Life was too busy to flatter myself with such absurd ideas as he had put into my head, and soon another matter came to occupy all my attention.
“My brother, as I have said, had received his commission, and seemed to have changed his ways altogether from the frivolity of his younger years. He advanced steadily through the ranks, becoming at last a full captain, and winning for himself an ardent little circle of admirers in the Navy. He had his own vessel, stationed at Liverpool, and between voyages was used to coming to London. He stayed with me only part of the time; the remainder was divided between his friends’ houses—as always, he had so many friends he knew not which ones to look up first—but when he was with me, he hardly saw any of them. One or two I did meet, and these I cannot say I liked overmuch. I should have suspected, on seeing them, that his life had not changed so much as I wanted to believe, but rather that his vices had grown in proportion with his rank. But in my company he was such a picture of upright, virtuous manhood, and so gay and companionable besides, that I could not really be blamed for looking no farther. At last, however, an incident did occur which could not be hidden from me.
“One day I received a call from a gentleman I had seen only once, conversing with my brother in the street—a foreign gentleman, very elegantly clad, but with something in his manner I did not like. The gentleman inquired whether I had not a message for him from my brother. No, no, I said—I had none. In fact, I believed him to be on a voyage at the moment, and had not seen him in two months. The fellow refused to believe me, and staring in a very rude way, mumbled something to himself and went off. That evening, as I was preparing for bed, there was a clamoring at the door. I heard the servant girl run to see what was the matter. By the time I had achieved the head of the stairs, I saw that Charlie was standing in the hallway with the foreign gentleman. They were both out of breath, disheveled from riding, Charlie would not tell me what was the matter, and ordered me to be silent when I asked a question. He requested that supper be served them, and said they would both stay the night. A room was readied for the stranger, and when I had seen them fed, I retired myself. On the morrow no more was said about the matter, but Charlie was not himself. Both he and his friend lurked about the house, hardly saying a word to me, and plainly ill at ease. I began to be uneasy myself, but when I demanded to be told what the matter was, he inquired, laughing, why I should think there was anything the matter? Still, neither of them quit the house that day nor the next, and a week passed in this same peculiar way. Then, as suddenly as they had come, they left. It was not until a week had gone by that I discovered what villainy they had been up to that day. It came to my attention in a most extraordinary fashion, by way of the very gentleman they had wronged. I shall not tell you very much about it, save that my brother had involved himself in a despicable plot, involving a lady of high rank and, what is worse, a man whom of all men I believe to have the courage of his convictions.”
Listening to this astonishing narration, Maggie had been too much absorbed in her friend’s tale to wonder why she had been chosen to hear it. But now, Miss Haversham having walked to the window in silence and remained there for some moments without stirring, she could not help saying—
“But why have you chosen to tell me all this?”
“You must think me very odd,” replied Miss Haversham, smiling, “but let us say simply that I have my reasons. I wished, first, not to mislead you about my identity. And I wished also to have your help.”
“My help! Why, what could I do?”
“First, I had better tell you what I set out to say at first, and to do so, I must tell you yet a little more, if you are not already tired of this tale.”
At Maggie’s protestations to the contrary, Blanche Haversham continued: “Then let me finish quickly, for I think we had better join the others.
“I discovered this intrigue, and at last Charlie himself confessed. I am afraid he did not do so only for his conscience, but because he needed my help. He had done more harm than he intended doing, for in truth he had not meant to be really wicked, but through weakness had been led beyond his first intentions by the influence of more hardened men. He needed money—a great deal of money—and now, having failed to get it as he hoped, he had alienated those very persons who could have helped him most. He knew of Mr. Brummel’s visit, for I had recounted it to him as a joke in one of my letters. And now he urged me to take up the scheme for his sake, as it could help him.”
“Help him to get money?” demanded Maggie, astonished. “Why, how could it have done that?”
“Not so much money outright, but credit; when you are accounted a regular member of the ton, there is no limit to the bills you may run up without once being called upon to pay, until you are so much in debt that the King himself could not pay ’em. I protested at first, of course, but at last allowed myself to be convinced. It was not that I condoned my brother’s conduct, but he was all the family I had, and torn between my own beliefs and that loyalty which must sometimes be placed above strict adherence to honesty, I could not refuse him. You must understand, besides, that he is the most persuasive man in all the world. I believe he could make a stone smile, if he liked. Oh! How I wish now I had not been so soft!
“But I had made up my mind, and having kept the card as a memento of Brummel’s visit, went to call upon him. He was delighted, though not much surprised, and instantly set up the scheme. Before I knew it, I had a new wardrobe entire from the best dressmakers in Bond Street. A house was taken for me in Grove Street, a carriage hired, and I was proclaimed the brightest belle at Almack’s. Brummel even changed my name—and yet let it be known that I was not who I claimed to be, saying he had found me on the Continent and that I had a tragic and mysterious past. The two together were enough to fascinate the whole ton, and as I saw at once what kind of people made up that world, and liked them not at all, they were the more impressed that I did not tumble before their quizzing glasses. Brummel saw to it that I had dancing lessons, and himself taught me a little French and Italian. He was quite giddy with his own success—the more especially as he had won a pretty sum of money from the Prince, who had bet him the ruse could not be carried off. And in exchange for this deceit, I was to be his very slave. Not a move could I make without his consent; I slept, ate, and paraded about for his pleasure, and the more sullen I became at this arrangement, the better the world liked me. My life became very like that of a bird in a gilded cage—the gilt, no matter how pretty, could not lessen the fact that I was imprisoned. I had the further pain of seeing my brother, who had nearly lost his commission through his folly, be reinstigated with my help, and, in the shadow of my conquests, be admitted to Almack’s, where he had nearly as much success as I had myself. No one knew he was my brother, of course: It was believed we were old friends, and that he knew my past. Everyone was clamoring to know about it, but playing the game to perfection, he teased them endlessly. Thus we have continued for five years and everyone, save myself, pleased beyond words. The more the game was played out, the more enmeshed I became. It had begun for me as the only means in my command to rescue my brother from absolute ruin. I believed, in my innocence, that there would be no more to it. Ah! If I had only known then what I know now! That the world, once it has got you in its hands, will not let go. It wraps its fingers around you, like some mysterious beast, and, so gently that one hardly knows it is there, begins to strangle you.”
Once again Miss Haversham paused, and once again Maggie was struck by the air of tragedy which lingered over her, and which was increased rather than diminished by the young woman’s obstinate refusal to cower before it. She had actually smiled as she spoke the last words; the combination of the smile—so out of place at that moment—the lady’s voice, and a kind of dark amusement in her brilliant eyes made Maggie shudder.
“Charlie would not, of course, leave off. As soon as he discovered what had been opened for him by my charade, he would not hear of my giving it up. And then—and then, of course, I met Mr. Montcrieff.”
Blanche Haversham’s voice grew soft, and her face, hitherto so commanding and proud, softened with it. But in an instant she gave herself a shake, and hurried on.
“And now we come to the point, why I have tired you so long with this story. There were only five of us who knew the truth about me—Brummel, of course, and the Prince, who considered it the height of entertainment, my brother Charles and myself, and one other—your cousin, Lord Ramblay. Oh! do not ask me how he knew, for it is not in my power to divulge that. Indeed, I only tell you now because it was he who, of all of them, was the only one who understood my unhappiness, and who, till this day, has offered me the comfort of honesty without once compromising my position. Even now, when I hope to be betrothed to Diana’s brother and when I could so easily be a great weight on his mind, he has been nothing but kind.”
There were a hundred questions Maggie dearly longed to ask, a hundred points she desired to have clarified. What was the role her cousin had played in all of this? Why, of all men, should he have been privy to such a well-kept secret, which had continued now so long? And this new side of his character astounded her. Indeed, she would like to have told Captain Morrison’s tale to her friend in order to have a second opinion about it. But there was not time to say another word, for just at that moment footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and in a moment the door was flung open.
“Ah, Miss Haversham—I thought I might find you here,” exclaimed Lord Ramblay, and then, catching sight of Maggie, stopped. “Why, Cousin—I did not see you at first. I hope I have not interrupted some private tête-à-tête?”
Miss Haversham smiled back at him. “No, no, Lord Ramblay—nothing like it. I have only been showing Miss Trevor your amazing collection of books. She solicited my help in finding her a novel, and I thought you would not mind our venturing in here.”
Lord Ramblay looked doubtfully back and forth between the two young ladies, and Maggie could not help but look a little guilty. He seemed not to notice, however, and remarked lightly, “Why, of course I do not mind. Only I am afraid Miss Trevor would have a greater success in finding a novel to her liking in the main library. This is only my little sanctuary, Cousin—and I suppose my own books would not amuse you much. I know how little fond ladies are of histories, and such kinds of dreadful old stories that make no mention of the latest fashions or current gossip.”
Even as she protested this abuse of her sex, in as light a tone as the Viscount’s, she watched the two others closely. But not a flicker passed between them. No movement, either of their eyes or lips, gave away the secret knowledge they shared. She noticed, too, that while all his other guests addressed her cousin as Percy, Blanche Haversham, who must have been on a still more intimate footing with him, always used his title. And even now the two stood smiling at each other, but without any trace of the complicity that joined them.
Lord Ramblay had been to fetch a surgeon, who was now attending upon young Mr. Montcrieff, but it seemed he desired some assistance. Recollecting what his cousin had said earlier, Lord Ramblay inquired whether Maggie would go to them, or if Miss Haversham would go in her stead. Blanche Haversham was willing; none of that critical coldness she had leveled at her lover earlier was in her eyes now. But Maggie mentioned that she had often bound up the lesser wounds of her father’s sailors when there had been no doctor nearby, and so it was decided she should go instead. Passing out of the doorway behind the Viscount, she turned to smile at her new friend. The smile was returned, and in that mutual glance was a wealth of understanding, and a little nod, which, on the part of Blanche Haversham, was full of questions. The returning look was more a reassurance than a flood of words could have been. “I understand you,” it said clearly, “and I do not judge you. I think you are the most glorious creature in the world!”