The Autumn Rose Page 20

  Edgar Gilchrist was there to say good-bye to Miss Meredith too, having called at Rucke House unseasonably early (he could not accustom himself to town hours) to beg a private interview with Lady Caroline. This was granted him, though Caro had it in mind herself to seek an interview with Seabury as soon as possible. While the others disbanded—Lord Romby to drink a celebratory glass of sherry—Caro invited Edgar to follow her into the Gilt Saloon. Miss Windle was the last person in the world to prevent their being alone together; she disappeared on a murmured pretext, still wiping the good-hearted tears from her bleared, delicately lidded eyes. “Dear Caroline,” commenced Mr. Gilchrist, when the great doors had been shut upon them, and he had seated himself rather stiffly on an intricately carved mahogany chair, “dear Caroline, will your patience suffer me to address you once more upon an old theme?”

  Lady Caroline smiled, though not broadly. “This is a mild beginning for you, my old friend, if I guess correctly what is to follow.”

  Edgar grimaced sheepishly. “I suppose I have offered for you so many times now, you amuse yourself with cataloguing the different varieties of proposals—by tone, and urgency, and place, no doubt?”

  Caro said nothing but shook her head gently.

  “The consciousness of my long suit, and my many failures, only prompts me to apply ever more often, dear Caro, for I have no pride to lose now, nor dignity, and must place all my hope on striking, by some lucky chance, at just the right moment.”

  “But there is no right moment, as I have told you before. There will be none.”

  “Ah, I cannot believe that!”

  “So I observe!”

  He glanced reproachfully at her. “Will you be my wife, though, my dearest?” he asked sweetly, an instant later.

  “No, my good friend. Though I am, as ever, sensible of the honour you do me, I must repeat, no. May I be dismissed now, Edgar?” she added. “I have some business to attend to.”

  He hesitated. “No, if you please, I beg you will stop a minute longer. There is something…I have no right to ask you, but I wish very much to know.”

  “And that is—?” she prompted curiously.

  “Are you in love with that fellow Seabury?” he demanded flatly.

  “Merciful Heavens, whatever makes you fancy such a thing?”

  “Caroline, you are absolutely crimson.”

  “Do not be foolish.”

  “But you are, dear girl. Oh Caro, this is a blow to me!”

  “You are making much out of nothing,” she returned, a little severely. “Why should you disquiet yourself with such surmises?”

  “Does he know?” asked Gilchrist, rising from his chair and pacing the length of the saloon. He reached the mantelpiece at one end and leaned against it, fixing her with an intense gaze.

  “Does who know what?” she asked, looking at the floor and fighting down her colour.

  “Seabury, does he know you love him,” he explained impatiently. “What makes you suppose you can lie to me, after all these years? I allow I have been a clunch just recently, but I know you a little better than that!”

  There was candour in this last speech that she could not help but return. “I do not know,” she said quietly. “I do not know, for that matter, if I really love him.”

  “Well, if it were left to me to guess, I should say you certainly did, my dear,” he answered, almost angrily. “Angela told me she fancied as much from your letters, for that matter, but I could not believe her.”

  “Angela thinks I am in love? I never said so.”

  “Truly, Caro, you under-estimate the both of us. Since your second letter she has been pretty certain. At first I thought she did it simply to tease me, but after a time she began to frighten me with her seriousness and conviction. She is very concerned lest you love where—where you are not loved in return. That is why I inquire…well, that is one reason I inquire whether Seabury knows your sentiments.”

  Lady Caroline hesitated. Did Seabury know? “I am afraid,” she said a moment later, “you must ask him, since you are so curious. I have no idea, though I sometimes wonder; I shall not deny that.”

  “Well, my dear,” said Edgar, grinning rather strangely after a deep breath, “I think we have hit upon a means to discourage me. For I am very discouraged indeed, hearing this.”

  “I am sorry that it hurts you,” she said softly.

  Edgar inhaled deeply again. “I leave this afternoon,” he said. “I should like to see Lord Seabury once more before I go; could you summon a footman to fetch him?”

  “Certainly,” she answered, ringing the bell. A servant entered the saloon a moment later and was despatched upon the errand.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said, with a slight bow. “I shall take my leave of you now, in that case.”

  “Do you mean for me to quit the room?” she inquired, when neither of them moved.

  He looked embarrassed. “Yes, rather, I suppose I do. Do you mind terribly? It is only because…I shall not have another opportunity of seeing his lordship.”

  “It has not occurred to you, I gather, that you might achieve that particular aim while I am in the room?”

  “But I desire to see him alone!” he objected.

  “Ah!” cried she. “Apparently I forgot your saying so, for I am sure I cannot recall it. Why, if I may take the liberty of asking, do you desire to see him alone?”

  Now Edgar turned red. “I must—put a question to him.”

  “You could not possibly—it seems so unlikely, yet I must proceed—you could not possibly be going to ask him if he loves me, could you?”

  He returned her dangerously sarcastic glare with a sullen one. “Damme, Caro, yes I am. How can I leave London with your happiness in such danger? Angela would kill me if she knew of it.”

  “Angela will kill you if she learns you interfered, I can promise you that,” she said grimly. “Or if she does not, I will.”

  “It does not signify to me. I must and will do my utmost to ensure your well-being.”

  “Then do not jeopardize it by exposing to Lord Seabury what I revealed in confidence to you.”

  “You never warned me it was in confidence.”

  “For the love of Heaven, Edgar—” she began angrily, but she was interrupted at this point by the arrival of Lord Seabury himself. His lordship greeted each of the old friends, then stood smiling affably, if inquiringly, upon Mr. Gilchrist.

  “Good-bye, Lady Caroline,” Mr. Gilchrist said pointedly.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Gilchrist,” she returned, not moving a hair.

  “It is you who are leaving, I think?” he suggested.

  “Oh no! Not I.” She sat politely staring daggers at him, and glancing now and then with a pleasant smile at the viscount.

  “I seem to have interrupted a disagreement,” he remarked at last.

  “Merely a misunderstanding, I assure you,” said Caro. “Mr. Gilchrist appears to have mistaken me for a chambermaid, for he seeks to dismiss me with a nod.”

  “Really, Caro, I should like to speak with his lordship in private—”

  “Whatever you have to say may be said, I think, in my presence,” she broke in firmly. “Go ahead, dear sir; thank Lord Seabury for his kindness during your visit.”

  As Edgar said nothing, Seabury stepped in diplomatically and assured him there was no need of thanking him.

  “Yes there is,” contradicted Edgar roughly, losing his patience all at once. “But that is not why I have come, as Lady Caroline is perfectly aware. I have come to ask you—that is, I have come in behalf of Lady Caroline…”

  “As ever,” the viscount put in drily, as Gilchrist faltered.

  “Yes, as ever, because Lady Caroline’s happiness is of great significance to me, and I cannot bear to leave her where it may be shattered at any moment.”

  “Edgar!” she exclaimed imperiously, but he would not be silent.

  “I must ask you, sir,” he plunged on, “if you are prepared…if you are aware…if,
in short, you are conscious of—”

  “Edgar, in the name of all that is reasonable!”

  “If you know what honour is done you in the breast of—”

  “Edgar, you must not!” she cried, horrified.

  Lord Seabury intervened at this point. “If you mean to ascertain, my young friend, whether Lady Caroline is treated in Rucke House with all the respect and admiration due her, I may allay your fears by informing you that she is, unquestionably. I know you are somewhat nervous of her welfare—as her friend, I believe?—and so I do not begrudge repeating to you, what scarcely requires stating at all, to wit, that Lady Caroline is as safe here as she could be anywhere, and will never want for a protector. I hope you can make your journey now with some measure of serenity.”

  “I appreciate your courtesy, my lord, in assuring me of this, but quite frankly my concern goes a little beyond—”

  Caroline had finally given up, and sat, despairingly, with her head buried in her hands. She was rescued at this juncture, however, from what had seemed inevitable disaster by the viscount himself, who advanced a little ways towards Edgar and broke in upon his sentence. “My young friend,” he said, in a low but compelling tone of voice, “once before you came to me, full of good intentions but, as I think we agreed then, somewhat rashly. Your behaviour at that time put me in—if I may say so—a rather awkward position. I hope you will regard this present reminder as nothing more objectionable, than a piece of, ah, avuncular advice, dear sir, and not resent my suggesting that before you proceed you consider once more exactly what you are doing.” Seabury spoke these last words most distinctly, and so slowly that each of them seemed a little sentence unto itself. Gilchrist, feeling once again the viscount’s steadying influence, was silent and thoughtful above a full minute before he replied.

  “Sir, it seems I am to be continually in your debt,” he said quietly, while Caro felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “One would think your good right hand was manacled to my foot, so surely do you prevent my putting it where it does not belong. I thank you, sir. Thank you, and good-bye.” He bowed as he said this and, with another bow to Caroline, hurried from the room despite all they could do to encourage him to remain a little longer.

  “He has always been impetuous,” Caroline remarked, with an apologetic smile, as the great doors closed behind him. “I hope you do not find it disconcerting?”

  “Not at all; he is a fine young man.” Lord Seabury had discovered that his opinion of Gilchrist rose immediately upon that gentleman’s removing himself from Lady Caroline’s vicinity; why he could not have said. “He is very fond of you, I think?” he added, yielding to curiosity.

  “No one is fonder, if he is to be believed,” said she. “I sometimes feel the inconvenience of it very much.”

  “Inconvenience?”

  “Occasionally one does not know what to do with…so much admiration,” she explained inadequately, though with a delightful grimace.

  Lord Seabury began to wonder if perhaps he ought not pass too very long a time alone with Lady Caroline. He had begun to excuse himself from her company when she interrupted.

  “I must beg a moment more with you, sir,” she said, forgetting Edgar as she remembered what Amy had told her last night. Seabury obligingly reseated himself. “My dear sir, whatever possessed you to challenge Mockabee when I expressly desired you not to do so?”

  Seabury stared in confusion a moment, then saw the light and cried, or rather groaned, “Oh, Amy!”

  “Yes, Amy indeed,” said Caro, with a tight smile. “She came to my room last night.”

  “Oh, Amy!” he repeated. “Thank Heaven she is out of London.”

  “Just so. I said something similar to her last night, in fact. She took it very ill.”

  “I am miserable to find you have learned of the duel—still more so in such a manner,” Seabury took up. “You are very angry with me?”

  “I am,” she said, then immediately added, “No, I am not.” Suddenly shy of raising her luminescent green eyes to meet his handsome blue ones, she explained, “I seem unable to be angry with you, sir, though I am quite as unable to comprehend the difficulty.”

  “You relieve me greatly.”

  “I am glad it is in my power to do so.”

  “You understand I was obliged to act according to my judgement?” he said a trifle anxiously. “I should have liked to honour your injunction, but I could not.”

  She nodded. “You sustained no injury, I hope?”

  “None at all.” For a moment they sat still gazing at one another, in silence. Then Seabury roused himself. “I really must go now. I am engaged to dine with Lord Safford and his family tomorrow, and I promised to prepare some documents for his lordship and deliver them then. They are far from ready—so if you will excuse me—” He took his leave with a few more words; shortly afterwards Lady Caroline also quitted the Gilt Saloon, and sought the privacy of her chambers. She found the thought of Lord Seabury’s dining with Lady Susan rather lowering; she could not know Seabury himself contemplated to the occasion with an unaccountable reluctance. Nor could Seabury, in his turn, know how very disturbing that seemingly innocent engagement was destined to be, still less that his twin cries of “Oh, Amy!” would strike him, a mere twenty-four hours later, as having been darkly prophetic.

  Chapter XI

  Lord Safford, a large man on the brink of old age, squinted at Seabury with that same squint Lady Susan had unfortunately inherited from him, and repeated his question. “What,” he demanded ponderously, shaking a scrap of hot-pressed notepaper with a trembling hand, “can this mean?”

  Seabury answered in a strangely faltering tone, “I am afraid, sir, that I hardly know what to make of it myself.”

  “But is it true?” persisted the older man. “Is there any truth to it, or none? Frankly, my friend, I had expected to hear a flat denial from you by now. What prevents your giving me one? You know I should not question your word.”

  Lord Seabury continued his silence for some moments. The paper of which Safford spoke so vehemently was a letter headed, “Rucke House, May 18th.” It had been addressed to the marquis, and contained this message:

  I cannot leave town in good conscience, dear sir, without apprising you of a situation which ought to have been brought to your attention long ago. My cousin Seabury is head over ears in love with Lady Caroline Wythe. How far matters have advanced between them I can only guess, nor can I tell you what stated understanding they may have with one another, but I can predict confidently that my cousin will never offer for your daughter. It is a pity she has waited so long for that event, but each passing day can only increase that pitifulness. In my opinion her only reasonable course is to break with Seabury, since he has not the honourableness to initiate such a proceeding himself.

  With the greatest respect, I remain yours etc.

  Amy Meredith

  Lord Safford, violently annoyed with Seabury’s long hesitation, rocked back on his heels, glaring at his visitor. “Does Lady Susan know of this?” that young gentleman finally asked.

  “She does not,” snapped the marquis, “I thought it best to hear you out upon the subject before I disturbed her with it. I am not hearing much,” he added ominously.

  “I do not know what to say,” the other replied weakly.

  “By God, tell me if it is true!” exploded Safford.

  “I cannot—I do not—my lord, I have ever looked upon you as a father, and of course…Lady Susan…” His voice trailed off. His throat felt dismally dry. “I have had every intention, naturally, of making Lady Susan my wife, if she will have me.”

  “Do not come the innocent with me, Seabury. You know Susan would have said yes to you any time these past seven years. What kept you from asking? What keeps you from it now? You call me a father, and—yes,” he went on, his voice breaking suddenly, “I have regarded you as a son. But by Heaven, if you have been playing my daughter for a fool all these years
I will deal with you as with my bitterest enemy. Now answer me, man!” he concluded, recovering his full fury. “Is this letter true or not?”

  Seabury swallowed hard. “It is not true,” he said.

  Some of Safford’s rigid passion left him. “This is more satisfactory, sir,” he said.

  “Unhappily,” Seabury took up again, so reluctantly that the very room seemed to sway before him, “it is not entirely false either.”

  This revelation struck Lord Safford with as much force as if it had been an actual blow. He felt the wind had been knocked out of him, and dropped instinctively into a chair. The two men were sequestered in Safford’s study, a room in which they had weekly passed many hours together ever since Seabury first sat in Parliament. The bond between the gentlemen was a strong one; it was sentimental as well as political, and had been nourished constantly since its inception by a continuing fund of shared experience. Lady Susan being his only child, Safford had often and keenly felt the lack of a son. Seabury had filled that gap, and gladly, since his own father had been more like a child to him than anything else. From earliest childhood he had been blushing for Romby’s imprudent, sometimes scandalous, activities. Lord Safford, a patient, upright, powerful mentor, had given him (though belatedly) the guidance and support Romby could never impart. It was no little gift. It was so great, in fact, that out of mere gratitude Seabury was still prepared to marry Lady Susan. Slowly, carefully, he said as much to Lord Safford.

  “But I am to understand, then, that you do not love my daughter?” Lord Safford queried at length.

  Seabury answered with painstaking precision. “It is not so much that I do not love her, sir, as that my love for her is—that of an old friend. Lady Susan is very dear to me; she must be dear to me for your sake if for no other reason—”

  Safford interrupted, “And there is in fact no other reason?”