“Forgive me, cousin, but we keep Mr. Browty’s horses waiting. I think you should write—if you have anything to say—write to me at Lady Bablock-Hythe’s direction.”
And she stepped into the carriage.
The evening in Russell Square seemed very long. Mr. Browty was a kindly and attentive host, but Delphie could not help finding that the hours dragged, and the entertainment was somewhat insipid. Out of consideration for Mrs. Carteret’s recent illness, no other company but themselves had been invited, and the rest consisted of Mr. Browty, his girls, and their governess, Miss Beak, a dried-up little woman whose conversation was limited to the exclamation “Well I declare!” uttered at every appropriate and inappropriate juncture.
The repast served was certainly splendid—three times as lavish as that contrived for Great-uncle Mark—but Delphie found that she was not hungry.
“You are tired, Miss Philadelphia,” said Mr. Browty kindly. “I shall take the liberty of ordering the carriage for you early. You had a disturbed night of it.”
Delphie had given him a brief account of Lord Bollington’s death, to which he had listened with the greatest interest.
“So your cousin will be the new Viscount, eh?” He gazed at Delphie speculatively, and she, on an impulse, inquired,
“Do you know anything of my cousin’s history, sir? I am very ill informed about him, since the branches of the family have always remained separate.”
“I know only what I heard at the club this morning, m’dear: that he has had a hard time of it, making ends meet; that Lady Laura Trevelyan threw him over when she discovered that he was obliged to support his sister and ten nephews and nieces on the income from his manor (sister’s husband dead or overseas, I understand; what happened to him did not seem to be known). And they say that your cousin was so enraged at the jilt—and at his sister’s ill-judged marriage that had brought him to such a pass in the first place—that he swore a solemn oath in White’s club, in front of all his friends, that he would never form such a foolish, imprudent alliance; that unless he could satisfy every requirement of sense, prudence, and rational moderation in his matrimonial arrangement—or some such rigmarole, I do not recollect the exact words—” said Mr. Browty, “he would never marry at all.”
“Oh, indeed?” said Delphie faintly. “I have—I have certainly observed that he is not very lenient toward romance or sentiment—or toward the female sex. But indeed, his sister is enough to put anybody out of patience.”
Let alone the sister’s husband, she thought.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Browty. “Young men make such vows! But then they think better of them. However, now he has come into a fortune there will be plenty of ladies setting their caps at him—he will be able to choose sensibly enough, I dare say.”
“Yes. No doubt.”
“I hope,” continued Mr. Browty, “that he will be more inclined to be liberal to you and your Mama than his uncle was.”
“I place no dependence on it.”
“You will not have heard yet as to your Mama’s annuity? I dare say the will has not been read yet?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Delphie. Then, observing that her mother was comfortably engaged in a game of whist with Miss Beak and the two girls, she said,
“Mr. Browty?”
“Ay, my dear?”
“About that matter—about the subject which you raised last week in Russell Square garden—?”
“Ay—ay—” Mr. Browty nodded hastily. “I know what you will be at, Miss Philadelphia! Mum’s the word!”—glancing indulgently at the whist players. “There they are, so snugly engaged, never dreaming we are looking their way, bless them! They do not hear us. As to that other matter, my dear,” he went on, very rapidly, before Delphie could speak, “I have been thinking around it, as you bade me, and I have come to the conclusion that you were quite right—quite right, my dear! We should not suit! January and May, youth and age—no, no, you were perfectly in the right, and it would not have done. Besides, now your great-uncle’s underground, I dare swear that you will be well on the way to making a fine match of it yourself! So we’ll shake hands on the matter, shall we, and say no more about it?”
He held out his hand, and, rather disconcerted, Delphie laid hers in it. The interview had not gone in the least as she had planned. But, left with no alternative, she replied,
“Yes, sir; that is—no.”
“Now, then,” pursued Mr. Browty, “there’s another thing I was wishful to say to you, Miss Philadelphia, while the gals were all busy at their cards.”
“Indeed, Mr. Browty? What is that?”
“I happened to be closeted with my man of business today, who is a devilish clever follow—a lawyer named Mundwinch—looks after the affairs of half the titled snobs in the Kingdom—wonderful attorney he is—you can trust Jos. Browty to find out the best—”
“Yes, sir?” said Delphie, as he seemed to have lost his thread.
“Ah, yes, old Mundwinch; he told me a deucedly queer tale. That cousin of yours, the new Viscount, had best look out; he ain’t above high-water mark yet!”
“What can you possibly mean, sir?”
“Why, Mundwinch—knowing I’ve an interest in Lord Bollington—told me that he had been approached (this was in strict confidence, mind, for I’m one of his best clients, and he knew I wouldn’t pass it on and,” said Mr. Browty robustly, “I know you won’t pass it on, Miss Philadelphia—)”
“No indeed! You can have confidence in me. But who approached him, Mr. Browty?”
“Fellow by the name of Fitzjohn—seems he’s some wrong-side-o’-the-blanket connection of Lord Bollington.”
“Certainly; I have met him. He was my great-uncle’s agent, and I am bound to say that Uncle Mark spoke highly of him.”
Insofar as he was capable of it, Delphie thought.
“Hah! Well, no sooner is your uncle cold on his bed than Master Fitzjohn is around at Mundwinch’s office, bringing a suit to prove that he’s the rightful heir!” said Mr. Browty triumphantly. “So maybe you’d best wait awhile before deciding which cousin to aim for, Miss Philadelphia! Aha, you look surprised! Thought that’d have you took aback! Directly I heard that news, I thought, Miss Philadelphia would take an interest in that. So you had best warn your great-cousin to be on the lookout—naming no names, of course!”
“I will indeed, sir, and thank you! But what a strange thing! How can that possibly be?”
“Ah well, the way Mundwinch had it, this here Fitz has papers to prove that his granda was married to some wench that all the world thought was only his bit of frippet—if I don’t offend you, Miss Philadelphia?”
“Not in the least, sir; facts must be looked in the face. But—good God! If that were the case, then not only my cousin Gareth—but also my great-uncle Mark would have been out of the succession; in which case, whatever will he has made would, I suppose, be invalid!”
“Ah, you’ve a right smart head on your shoulders, lass! I daresay you should ha’ been a man,” remarked Mr. Browty. “Trust you to seize the nub of the case in a twinkling!”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, rather wanly. “You have given me a great deal to think about. I wonder why Mr. Fitzjohn did not bring the suit before, while great-uncle Mark was still alive?”
“Doubtless,” said Mr. Browty, “if he had expectations under that Lord Bollington’s will, he thought it best to secure ‘em, before trying for more. Didn’t want to lose his cheese for the moon! The old feller would hardly have made a bequest to someone whom he might consider a Viper in his bosom.”
“Yes—I daresay,” said Delphie. “But I believe they have just finished their card game and we should be thinking of returning home—to Curzon Street. It has been a most enjoyable evening, Mr. Browty.”
Which polite statement was, from Delphie’s point of view, very far from the truth.
14
On the following morning, early, Mrs. Carteret received a note from her friend La
dy Bablock-Hythe:
My dearest Ella:
I write to inform you that I have lost no Time in Evicting that bold-fac’d Creature from my residence, together with her Odious Maid. Needless to say, she was all Innocence and Ignorance; could not Imagine how I cd believe such a Tale of her, was in Despair that she had lost my Favour, Then How, Miss, said I, can it be that you told me of your Mamma’s Death in childbed & now I find that it is No Such Thing, that my Sweet Freind has all this time been living but a Bowshot from Brook St? Answer me that, Miss? Alas, Ma’am, says she, I must confess that here I fell into a trifling Prevarication; the truth being that I did not wish to distress you—for Mrs. Carteret, my Mamma, has run Mad any time these 20 years & is given, at times, to fits of the most Horrid nature; not only which, but, due to her Insanity, she quite refuses to Acknowledge me, has adopted another young lady, who comes from I know not where, & in proof of the Truth of what I say, & my own Claims, I can here shew you a Certificate of my birth. Pho, pho, Miss, says I, wd you have me beleive some dirty bit of Paper sooner than the evidence of my own Eyes & ears? My dear freind Mrs C acknowledges the sweet Philadelphia as her own Daughter, & that is enough for me. Alas, Ma’am, says she, Feigning to wipe a tear from her false Eye, but this young Person that my Mamma is putting forward may indeed be a daughter of her’s, but as to what kind of person was her Father, who can say? for she was born after the death of Captain Carteret (my late esteem’d Parent) and subsequent to my Mother’s Madness—You can imagine, my sweetest Ella, that I did not stand idly by & hear you thus scandalously Traduced. Out upon you, you False, Spiteful creature, I will listen to no more of your Duplicity (cried I); I must request you instantly to leave the protection of my Roof & betake yourself elsewhere. Oh, Madam, cries She, all tears, if you desert me where ever shall I go? That, says I, I neither know nor Care, so I am not subjected to your Impostures & Deceits for another half-hour, & so I turned my back on her & desired the servants to see that She and her belongings were forth from the House by nine o’clock. I believe she is now Gone. I am all impatience to welcome my Ella & her Delightful child in that Harpy’s place. Do not delay, therefore, my dearest freind, but pray make haste to come today, by noon, if it may be done; if This is Convenient to you, I will have my Carriage sent shortly before that Hour in order that we may Continue the Felicities of our Sweet recollections & mutual discourse & I may have the Pleasure of introducing your dear Philadelphia to the Polite World.
I remain, Sweet Freind,
Your ever-devoted & affectionate, Maria Bablock-Hythe.
Mrs. Carteret’s gratification at this epistle was somewhat alloyed by learning of the scandalous slanders being spread about her by her pretended daughter, but Delphie did her best to make light of these, and turn her mother’s thoughts in a more cheerful direction.
“After all,” Delphie pointed out, “now that Lady Bablock-Hythe has withdrawn her protection and favor from the young lady, nobody will pay any regard to what she says; it will be universally assumed that she was the imposter, and, since no one suggests that you are not the true Mrs. Carteret, your version of the case must be believed.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” said Mrs. Carteret rather dolefully. “It is all very singular, Delphie, and I think it a great shame that persons should tell such lies about us!”
Delphie then easily distracted her mother by asking what garments she thought they ought to take with them to Lady Bablock-Hythe’s residence, a needless question, since both their wardrobes were so small that their only possible recourse was to take everything they possessed, but it had the effect of diverting Mrs. Carteret into a discussion of what it would be suitable to wear for morning calls, card parties, an evening at Vauxhall Gardens, or an Assembly at Almacks.
Delphie listened unmoved to an account of the pleasures that were probably in store for them; her heart was heavy, and, despite her reassurances to her mother, she was in considerable anxiety as to what harm the false Miss Carteret, in her rage at being dislodged from her secure footing in Brook Street, might attempt to do to them.
When they had packed up their clothes, Delphie mounted the stairs in order to take leave of the Palgrave family.
She had imagined that, now Mr. Palgrave was returned to the bosom of his family, Una would be less anxious for her own company, but this proved not at all the case.
Mr. Palgrave, it seemed, had already appropriated one of the rooms on the top floor for his exclusive use as sanctum and study; he spent all his time there, and was hardly more to be seen than he had been during his incarceration in the Marshalsea. Indeed, the only persons who benefited from his release were the children, no longer obliged to carry his meals to Southwark twice daily; and their joy was not unalloyed, for they reported that Papa was forever putting his head out of the door to bid them make less noise; while his wife seemed to derive no pleasure from his return whatsoever, and made no secret of her resentment at his unaccommodating ways.
“He never speaks, save to complain of the children, or his room, or to ask for something,” said she. “I declare he is worse than Gareth—men are odious creatures! He has no consideration whatsoever for my afflicted state of health!” And when Delphie announced their imminent departure, her distress equaled that of somebody losing a lifetime’s friend.
“Oh, my dearest Delphie, are you indeed leaving us? Oh, how acutely shall I miss your sweet companionship! I trust that your removal will be of short duration, and that you will soon be returning to us?”
Delphie said that she did not think so. Her mother’s spirits had been so deeply affected by the death of Lord Bollington, that the house had acquired unhappy associations for her, and nothing but a complete change of scene could restore her serenity. (This, if not the entire truth, contained such a large element of it as to be, she thought, a reasonable excuse to offer for their sudden departure.) Una, however, was by no means satisfied.
“Oh, my dear, dear cousin, pray reconsider! I shall be so lonely here!”
“What, with ten children and your husband? And your brother too?”
“But only think! Gareth will probably now reside at Chase, or at my uncle’s house in Hanover Square; Thomas never comes out of his study; and the children, poor little things, are merely an exhaustion to my nerves. And if,” said Una, with a conscious and somewhat guilty glance at her cousin, “if, my dear Delphie, by any chance it was some slight playful remarks I may have passed to Gareth about your dining in Russell Square—some sportive or rallying allusions to the worthy Mr. Browty—only in fun, be certain!—which may have put some little nonsense into his mind—and perhaps caused him to be somewhat brusque with you—I am indeed sorry for it! Nothing was further from my intention than to make any trouble between you, and I hope you are not at outs with me? Gareth is in such a fidgety mood at present that the least thing puts him in a tweak; I am sure I do not know what ails him!”
Delphie coolly replied that she had been quite unaware Mr. Penistone was not in spirits, and pray let his sister not concern herself with such a slight matter, when there were so many weighty affairs to be dealt with; she was sure when Lord Bollington’s business cares were settled he would be in an easier frame of mind; and she hoped, also, that the settlement of Great-uncle Mark’s will would soon produce more comfortable circumstances for the Palgrave family. Una’s face brightened at this cheerful thought, and Delphie left her, not sorry to think that she was removing from the neighborhood of such a whining mischief-maker.
She said good-by to the children, who received the news that she was leaving with unaffected disappointment.
“For you gave us such a bang-up supper, the other night, Cousin Delphie! The little ones said there had been nothing like it since Papa went to jail! Must you really go? We was in hopes you’d come with us to Hampton Court some time.”
“Well, perhaps I may be able to do that, when we are settled in our new lodging,” said Delphie. “I dare say we shall not be very far away.”
She could not
restrain a sigh as she thought of the rooms downstairs, so sunny and spacious. Putting aside this regret, she inquired about the excursion to Astley’s Amphitheatre, and was told that it had been prime, bang-up, the best lark in the world, the most amazing thing possible; they had bought two halfpennyworths of apples, had had excellent seats, and had enjoyed the evening beyond anything.
The Carterets’ removal was achieved without hindrance; Gareth, evidently, was out of London, or, at least, not to be seen. Lady Bablock-Hythe greeted them most affectionately on their arrival in Brook Street, led them to luxuriously furnished apartments fitted with everything they could possibly require, and was full of a thousand plans for their entertainment.
It was plain, however, that at least some hours of quiet rest and domestic peace were what Mrs. Carteret really needed, and her good-natured hostess soon realizing this, the two friends immediately settled down to a continuation of their enjoyable chat.
Delphie, observing this with pleasure, made her excuses and mentioned that she had a lesson to give in Berkeley Square. Lady Bablock-Hythe was scandalized at the thought of a young lady going about London on her own, and offered a maid to escort her, but this Philadelphia politely declined.
“Indeed, ma’am, I am quite used to go about unescorted, and have never suffered the least annoyance, I assure you.”
“Oh dear! Really it is quite Gothick, you know, and will not do at all! Fortunately at the moment nobody knows you, but as soon as I have introduced you at Almacks, you will really have to give over these gadabout ways, my dear—or I do not see how we shall ever succeed in securing an eligible connection for you and establishing you creditably.”