The Reflections of Ambrosine: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It poured rain again before the sportsmen returned, and they were more
or less wet and cross. Antony went straight to his room to change, and
so did the two other decent men. But the commercial friends stayed
as they were, muddy boots and all, and were grouped round the fire,
smelling of wet, hot tweed, when Mrs. Dodd sailed into the room.

"Wullie," she said, sternly, "you've no more sense than a child, and
if it was not for me you'd have been in your coffin these five years.
Go up-stairs this minute and change your boots." And off she sent him,
but not without a parting shot from Miss Springle.

"Mind you put on a blue velvet smoking-suit, Mr. Dodd, dear. I do
love gentlemen in smoking-suits," she said, giggling.

Tea was a terrible function. Oh, the difference to the merry tea at
Harley!

Lady Wakely, sleepily knitting and addressing an occasional
observation to her neighbor; the rest of the women silent as the
grave, except Miss Springle and Mrs. Dodd, who sparred together like
two cats.

The men could talk of nothing but the war news which had come by the
afternoon post.

There was a gloom over the whole party. How on earth was I to escape
from the oppression? They were not people of the world, who would be
accustomed to each person doing what they pleased. They expected to be
entertained all the time. To get away from them for a moment I would
be obliged to invent some elaborate excuse.

Antony had not appeared upon the scene, or Augustus, either.

At last--at last Lady Wakely put her knitting in a bag and made a move
towards the door.

"I shall rest now," she said, in her fat, kind voice, and I
accompanied her from the room, leaving the rest of my guests to take
care of themselves. I felt I should throw the cups at their heads if
I stayed any longer.

There, in the hall, was Antony, quietly reading the papers. His
dark-blue and black silk smoking-suit was extraordinarily becoming. He
looked like a person from another planet after the people I had left
in the drawing-room.

He rose as we passed him.

"Some very interesting South African news," he said, addressing me,
and while I stopped to answer him Lady Wakely went up the stairs
alone.

"The draughts are dreadful here again, Comtesse," he said,
plaintively.

"Why did you not go into the library, then," I said, "or the
billiard-room, or one of the drawing-rooms?"

"I thought perhaps you might pass this way and would give me your
advice as to which room to choose."

I laughed. "The library, then, I suggest," and I started as if to go
up the stairs.

"Comtesse! You would not leave me all alone, would you? You have not
told me half enough about our ancestors yet."

"Oh, I am tired of the ancestors!" and I mounted one step and looked
back.

"I thought perhaps you would help me to tie up my wrist."

I came down instantly. If he were pretending, I would punish him
later.

"Come," I said, and led the way to the library, where we found the
fire had gone out.

How ashamed I felt of the servants! This must never happen again.

"Not here; it is cold and horrid." And he followed me on into my
mother-in-law's boudoir. There were no lights and no fire.

My wrath rose.

"It must be your mustard sitting-room, after all," said Antony. So up
the stairs we went. Here, at all events, the fire blazed, and the room
glowed with brilliancy.

Roy was lying on the rug and seemed enchanted to see us.

"Is it really hurting you?" I said, hurriedly.

"No, not hurting--only a stupid little scratch." And he undid his
shirt-cuff and turned up his sleeve.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Oh, I am so sorry!"

One of the shots had grazed the skin and made a nasty cut, which
was plastered up with sticking-plaster and clumsily tied with a
handkerchief.

"My servant is not a genius at this sort of thing. Will you do it
better, Comtesse?"

I bound the handkerchief as neatly as I could, and, for some
unexplained reason, as once before at Harley, my heart beat in my
throat. I could feel his eyes watching me, although my head was bent.

I did not look up until the arm was finished. His shirt was of the
finest fine. There was some subtle scent about his coat that pleased
me. A faint perfume, as of very good cigars--nothing sweet and
effeminate, like a woman. It intensely appealed to me. I felt--I
felt--oh, I do not know at all what my feelings meant. I tried to
think of grandmamma, and how she would have told me to behave when I
was nervous. I had never been so nervous in my life before.

"You--you will not shoot to-morrow?" I faltered.

"Of course I shall. You must not trouble about this at all, Comtesse.
It is the merest scratch, and was a pure accident. He is an excellent
fellow, Mr.--er--Dodd is his name, is it not? Only pity is he did not
shoot his wife, poor fellow!"

Again, as on a former occasion, the admirable _sang-froid_ of my
kinsman carried things smoothly along. I felt quite calmed when I
looked up at him.

"We won't try sitting on that sofa to-night," I laughed. "This is a
fairly comfortable arm-chair. You are an invalid. You must sit in
it. See, I shall sit here," and I drew a low seat of a dreadfully
distorted Louis XV. and early Victorian mixed style that the
upholsterer, when bringing the things, had described to me as a
"sweet, pretty lady's-chair."

Antony sat down. The light from the lily electric branches made the
gray in his hair shine silver. He looked tired and not so mocking as
usual.

"I have settled with your husband when you are to come to Dane Mount.
He says the 4th of November will suit him."

"We shall drive over, I suppose?"

"Yes."

After that we neither of us spoke for a few moments.

"Did you read La Rochefoucauld last night?" I asked, presently.

"No."

"Well, why did you ask for it, then?"

"I had a very good reason."

One could never describe the expression of Antony's face. If one goes
on saying "mocking," or "cynical," or "ironical," or "quizzical," it
gives no impression of what it is. It is a mixture of all four, and
yet laughing, and--and--tender, and _insouciant_, and gay. He is
himself, and there could never be any one like him. One feels as if
all common things must vanish and shrivel up before his style of wit.

One could think of him as finishing his game of chess calmly while the
officers of the Terror waited to conduct him to the guillotine. He is
exactly--oh, but exactly!--grandmamma's idea of a gentleman. I wish
she had seen more of him.

There is nothing _poseur_ or dramatic about him. He is quite simple,
although he laughs at things all the time. I seem to have learned more
of the world, and the tone of everything, just talking to him, than
from all the books I have read lately. What would it be like if he
were interested in anything intensely, if something moved him deeply,
if he really cared?

As I sat there I thought of many things. An atmosphere of home had
suddenly come into the room. I could almost believe I could hear
grandmamma's voice.

"What are you thinking of so seriously, Comtesse?" he asked, lazily.

"I was wondering--"

"Well?"

"I was wondering if anything really mattered in life; if one could
grow old and remain numb all the time; if things are real; if--oh,
does anything matter? Tell me, you who know."

"Not many things. Later, you will regret some things you have not
done--very few you have."

"I have been reading metaphysics lately, and, it seems, one could
reason one's self into believing nothing is real. One of my books said
the ancient Cynic philosophers doubted for the sake of investigation
and the moderns investigate for the sake of doubting. What does it all
mean?"

He began stroking Roy's ears. He had put his dear black-and-tan head
on Antony's knee.

"It means a great many words. Do not trouble your wise head about it.
The world is a pleasant enough place if you can pay your bills and
have a fair digestion--eh, Roy? Bones are good things, aren't they,
old fellow?"

"You, at all events, are never serious," and I laughed.

"I will tell you about that when you come to Dane Mount."

"I wish you could have got Lady Tilchester to go, then. I do like her
so much. She has been very kind to me. It would give me pleasure to
see her."

"She is a delightful woman."

"She told me how long she had known you--since her wedding-day, I
think she said--and, oh, lots of things about you. She seemed--"

He moved his arm suddenly.

"I don't think you tied this handkerchief tight enough, Comtesse," he
said, again turning up his cuff.

I rose and looked at the bandage.

"Why, yes. It is just the same as it was. But I will do it again if
you wish."

This time it did not take me so long, but that ridiculous beating
began again in my heart.

"It must have a double knot to keep it right," said Antony.

My fingers seemed clumsy. We were standing so close together there was
a something--an electricity--which made my hands tremble. Oh, this was
folly! I _must_ not let myself feel so. I finished the knot at last,
and then said, stupidly:

"I have an idea I should return to my worthy guests down-stairs,'"

Antony smiled.

"They are quite happy without you," he said, "Vain little Comtesse,
to think your presence is necessary to every one!"

"I dare say. But--I must go to them."

"No, you must not. Sit down in your low chair and forget all about
them. No good hostess fusses after her guests. People like to be left
to themselves."

I sat down meekly.

"I never can understand," said Antony, presently, "why your
grandmother did not let me know when first you came to the cottage.
She was fully aware of the relationship between us, even if I was
not."

"Grandmamma was a very proud woman. We were so very poor. And then,
there was grandpapa's _b�tise_, which, I fancy, had quite separated
them from his family."

"What made her come to Ledstone at all, I wonder?"

I felt my cheeks getting pink, and bent down to look into the fire.

"She wanted to live in England, so that I might become English by
growing up there, and--and it was cheap. We had been in London before
that, and back in Paris, and down at Brighton, and a lot of dull
places. I remember she saw the advertisement in the paper one morning
and took the cottage immediately."

"You had heard that we were relations?" he asked.

"Yes, vaguely. But I did not know how many of you there were, only
that the present holder of the title was a Sir Antony."

"It was a strange coincidence neither of us should have caught the
other's name at the ball that night."

"Yes."

"Afterwards, when we talked you over at Harley, every one had got
information about you, it seemed. They were all so awfully interested
in you. You looked such an extraordinary contrast to the rest of the
company."

"Well, I am glad of that."

He smiled.

"It was when I heard that your grandmother was a Frenchwoman I grasped
everything. I remembered there was some story in the family about a
younger son marrying a beautiful Parisienne. But it seemed to me it
must be too far back to be possible. And then Lady Tilchester told me
she was a very old woman. So we came over next day."

"I wish you had seen more of grandmamma," I said. "You would have got
on together. She used to say wonderful things sometimes."

"I thought her the most lovely old lady I had ever seen."

"Her maxims would fill a book as big as La Rochefoucauld."

"What a pity you did not write them down!"

"The Marquis and she had the _religion du beau_. They worshipped
everything that was beautiful and suitable and refined. They never did
anything for effect, only because the action was due to themselves and
was a good action." I paused.

"Go on, Comtesse," said Antony. "I like to hear it all."

"They really believed in _noblesse oblige_. Neither of them would have
stooped from their position--oh, not a little inch."

"It is a thing we have quite forgotten in England. It was
inconvenient, and most of us are not rich enough to indulge in it."

"But must one be rich to behave as of one's race?" I asked,
astonished.

"Yes--or remain in the background, a good deal bored. To obtain
the wherewithal to enjoy this rather expensive world, people stoop
considerably nowadays."

"And you don't think it dreadful?"

"I am not a Crusader. Times have changed. One can keep one's own ideas
and let others do as they please."

"Grandmamma had a maxim like that. She said it was _bourgeois_ to be
shocked and astonished at things. She believed in the difference of
classes. No one could have persuaded her that the common people are
made of the same flesh and blood as we are."

"Tell me some more."

"This was her idea of things generally: first of all, to have the
greatest self-respect; to stoop to no meanness; to desecrate the body
or mind in no way; to conquer and overcome all foolish emotions;
to be unselfish, to be gay, to be courageous; to bear physical and
moral pain without any outward show; to forever have in front of one
that a straight and beautiful carriage must be the reflection of a
straight and beautiful mind; to take pleasure in simple things, and
to be contented with what one has got if it is impossible to obtain
better--in short, never to run one's head against a stone wall or
a feather-bed, but if a good thing is to be gained by patience, or
perseverance, or concentration, to obtain it."

"I am learning. Continue," said Antony, but there was no mock in his
eyes. Only he smiled a little.

"They both had a fine contempt of death and a manner of _grand
seigneur_ and a perfect philosophy. They had the refinement of
sentiment of the _ancien r�gime_, only they were much less coarse. And
in the _ancien r�gime_ one worshipped the King and the constitution of
France, whereas grandmamma and the Marquis worshipped only _le beau_
in everything, which is higher than an individual."

"How well you tell it! I shall have to reorganize my religion."

"You are laughing at me!"

"No, I am not. I am deeply interested. Go on," and he leaned back in
the straight-backed arm-chair.

"'Never stay in the mud,' was another of grandmamma's maxims. 'It
happens that the best of us may fall there in life, but no one need
stay there,' she used to say. Even the common people could rise out
of it if they a fine enough spirit. But we were the examples, and one
must never give a bad example. For instance, the common people might
cry when they were hurt. They were only lower creatures and under the
protection of the others. They could roar, if it pleased them, as they
were the model of no one. But we could not cry, to encourage this
foolishness."

"And so you lived and learned all that, dear little Comtesse! No
wonder your eyes are so wise."

"I remember once I became impatient with some new stitches in my
embroidery that would not go right, and I flung the piece down
and stamped on it and tore it. Grandmamma said nothing, but she
deliberately undid a ball of silk and tangled it dreadfully, and
then gave it to me to straighten out. It was not to irritate me, she
said. But patience and discipline were necessary to enable one to get
through life with decency and pleasure, and while I untangled the silk
I should have time to reflect upon how comically ridiculous I had
been to throw down and trample upon an inanimate thing that only my
personal stupidity had caused to annoy me."

Antony looked at me a long time. He sighed a short, quick sigh, and
then said, gayly:

"You must certainly write a book for the training of the young. But
what did your grandmother say of such things as strong passions--the
mad love of one person for another, for instance? Could they be ruled
by maxims?"

"She did not discuss those things with me. But she did say that in
life, now and then, there came a _coup de foudre_, which sometimes was
its glory and sometimes not; that this was nature, and there was no
use going absolutely contrary to nature; but that a disciplined person
was less likely to commit a _b�tise_, or to mistake a passing light
for the _coup de foudre_, than one who was accustomed to give way to
every emotion, as a trained soldier is better able to stand fire than
the raw recruit from the fields."

"And yet the trained soldier goes under sometimes."

"In that case, she said, there were only two courses--either to finish
the matter and go out altogether, or to get up again and fight better
next time."

Antony looked down at me. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and it
seemed as if he were observing something in my very soul. Then he
said, with a whimsical smile, "Comtesse, tell me. And did she consider
there were any great sins?"

"Oh yes. To break one's word, or in any way degrade one's race. But
she said sins were not so much sins in themselves as in their _fa�on
de faire_. One must remain a gentlewoman--or man--always, even in
moments of the greatest _tourbillons_. 'We are all of flesh and
blood,' she said, 'but in the same situation the _fille de chambre_
conducts herself differently to the _femme de qualit�_.' What a
serious impression I am giving you of grandmamma, though! She was
a gay person, full of pleasant thoughts."

"She permitted pleasures, then?"

"But, of course, all pleasures that did not really injure other
people. She said priests and custom and convention had robbed the
world of much joy."

"She was quite right."

"She liked people to have fine perceptions. To be able to 'see with
the eye-lashes' was one of her expressions, and, I assure you, nothing
escaped her. It was very fatiguing to be long in the company of people
who passed their lives morally eating suet-pudding, she said. Avoid
stodge, she told me, and, above all, I was to avoid that sentimental,
mawkish, dismal point of view that dramatically wrote up, over
everything, 'Duty,' with a huge D. It happened that there were duties
to be done in life, but they must be accomplished quietly, or gayly,
as the case might be. 'Do not shut the mouth with a snap, and, having
done so, turn the corners down,' she said. 'These habits will not
procure friends for you.' And so I learned to take things gayly."

We were both silent for some time after this. Then Antony exerted
himself to amuse me. We talked as lightly as the skimming of swallows,
flying from one subject to another. We were as happy as laughing
children. The time passed. It seemed but a few minutes when the clock
struck eight.

"You will make me late for dinner!" I exclaimed. "But you reminded me
of grandmamma and the Marquis and made me talk."

"May I come again to-night--to return La Rochefoucauld?" he asked,
with his droll smile.

"I do not know. We shall see." And I ran into my room, leaving him
standing beside the fire.

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