The Shuttle & The Making of a Marchioness. Frances Hodgson BurnettЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You must let me congratulate you very warmly, Miss Fox-Seton,” she said, pressing her hand with maternal patronage. “Your life has changed greatly since we last saw each other.”
“Very greatly indeed,” Emily flushed frankly in innocent gratitude as she answered. “You are very kind. Thank you, thank you.”
“Yes, a great change.” Walderhurst saw that her smile was feline and asked himself what the woman was going to say next. “The last time we met you called to ask me about the shopping you were to do for me. Do you remember? Stockings and gloves, I think.”
Walderhurst observed that she expected Emily to turn red and show herself at a loss before the difficulties of the situation. He was on the point of cutting into the conversation and disposing of the matter himself when he realised that Emily was neither gaining colour nor losing it, but was looking honestly into her Grace’s eyes with just a touch of ingenuous regret.
“It was stockings,” she said. “There were some marked down to one and elevenpence halfpenny at Barratt’s. They were really quite good for the price. And you wanted four pairs. And when I got there they were all gone, and those at two and three were not the least bit better. I was so disappointed. It was too bad!”
Walderhurst fixed his monocle firmly to conceal the fact that he was verging upon a cynical grin. The woman was known to be the stingiest of small great persons in London, her economies were noted, and this incident was even better than many others society had already rejoiced over. The picture raised in the minds of the hearers of her Grace foiled in the purchase of stockings marked down to 1_s_. 11-1/2_d_. would be a source of rapture for some time to come. And Emily’s face! The regretful kindness of it, the retrospective sympathy and candid feeling! It was incredibly good!
“And she did it quite by accident!” he repeated to himself in his inward glee. “She did it quite by accident! She’s not clever enough to have done it on purpose. What a brilliantly witty creature she would be if she had invented it!”
As she had been able unreluctantly to recall her past upon this occasion, so she was able to draw for Mrs. Osborn’s benefit from the experience it had afforded her. She wanted to make up to her, in such ways as she could, for the ill turn she had inadvertently done her. As she had at once ranged herself as an aid on the side of Lady Agatha, so she ranged herself entirely without obtrusiveness on the side of the Osborns.
“It’s true that she’s a good sort,” Hester said when they went away. “Her days of being hard up are not far enough away to be forgotten. She hasn’t any affectation, at any rate. It makes it easier to stand her.”
“She looks like a strong woman,” said Osborn. “Walderhurst got a good deal for his money. She’ll make a strapping British matron.”
Hester winced and a dusky red shot up in her cheek. “So she will,” she sighed.
It was quite true, and the truer it was the worse for people who despairingly hung on and were foolish enough to hope against hope.
Chapter Eight
The marriage of Lady Agatha came first, and was a sort of pageant. The female writers for fashion papers lived upon it for weeks before it occurred and for some time after. There were numberless things to be written about it. Each flower of the garden of girls was to be described, with her bridesmaid’s dress, and the exquisite skin and eyes and hair which would stamp her as the beauty of her season when she came out. There yet remained five beauties in Lady Claraway’s possession, and the fifth was a baby thing of six, who ravished all beholders as she toddled into church carrying her sister’s train, aided by a little boy page in white velvet and point lace.
The wedding was the most radiant of the year. It was indeed a fairy pageant, of youth and beauty, and happiness and hope.
One of the most interesting features of the occasion was the presence of the future Marchioness of Walderhurst, “the beautiful Miss Fox-Seton.” The fashion papers were very strenuous on the subject of Emily’s beauty. One of them mentioned that the height and pose of her majestic figure and the cut of her profile suggested the Venus of Milo. Jane Cupp cut out every paragraph she could find and, after reading them aloud to her young man, sent them in a large envelope to Chichester. Emily, faithfully endeavouring to adjust herself to the demands of her approaching magnificence, was several times alarmed by descriptions of her charms and accomplishments which she came upon accidentally in the course of her reading of various periodicals.
The Walderhurst wedding was dignified and distinguished, but not radiant. The emotions Emily passed through during the day—from her awakening almost at dawn to the silence of her bedroom at South Audley Street, until evening closed in upon her sitting in the private parlour of an hotel in the company of the Marquis of Walderhurst—it would require too many pages to describe.
Her first realisation of the day brought with it the physical consciousness that her heart was thumping—steadily thumping, which is quite a different matter from the ordinary beating—at the realisation of what had come at last. An event which a year ago the wildest dream could not have depicted for her was to-day an actual fact; a fortune such as she would have thought of with awe if it had befallen another woman, had befallen her unpretending self. She passed her hand over her forehead and gasped as she thought of it.
“I hope I shall be able to get accustomed to it and not be a—a disappointment,” she said. “Oh!” with a great rising wave of a blush, “how good of him! How can I ever—”
She lived through the events of the day in a sort of dream within a dream. When Jane Cupp brought her tea, she found herself involuntarily making a mental effort to try to look as if she was really awake. Jane, who was an emotional creature, was inwardly so shaken by her feelings that she herself had stood outside the door a few moments biting her lips to keep them from trembling, before she dared entirely trust herself to come in. Her hand was far from steady as she set down the tray.
“Good morning, Jane,” Emily said, by way of trying the sound of her voice.
“Good morning, miss,” Jane answered. “It’s a beautiful morning, miss. I hope—you are very well?”
And then the day had begun.
Afterwards it marched on with solemn thrill and stately movement through hours of wondrous preparation for an imposing function, through the splendid gravity of the function itself, accompanied by brilliant crowds collected and looking on in a fashionable church, and motley crowds collected to look on outside the edifice, the latter pushing and jostling each other and commenting in more or less respectful if excited undertones, but throughout devouring with awestruck or envious eyes. Great people whom Emily had only known through the frequent mention of their names in newspapers or through their relationship or intimacy with her patrons, came to congratulate her in her rôle of bride. She seemed to be for hours the centre of a surging, changing crowd, and her one thought was to bear herself with an outward semblance of composure. No one but herself could know that she was saying internally over and over again, to steady herself, making it all seem real, “I am being married. This is my wedding. I am Emily Fox-Seton being married to the Marquis of Walderhurst. For his sake I must not look stupid or excited. I am not in a dream.”
How often she said this after the ceremony was over and they returned to South Audley Street, for the wedding breakfast could scarcely be computed. When Lord Walderhurst helped her from the carriage and she stepped on to the strip of red carpet and saw the crowd on each side of it and the coachman and footmen with their big white wedding favours and the line of other equipages coming up, her head whirled.
“That’s the Marchioness,” a young woman with a bandbox exclaimed, nudging her companion. “That’s ‘er! Looks a bit pale, doesn’t she?”
“But, oh Gawd! look at them di-monds an’ pearls—jess look at ‘em!”