The Shuttle & The Making of a Marchioness. Frances Hodgson Burnett

so long as she lived the odour of fresh fish would make her feel sorrowful. She had heard of people who were made sorrowful by the odour of a flower or the sound of a melody but in her case it would be the smell of fresh fish that would make her sad. If she had been a person with a sense of humour, she might have seen that this was thing to laugh at a little. But she was not a humorous woman, and just now–-

      “Oh, I shall have to find a new place,” she was thinking, “and I have lived in that little room for years.”

      The sun got hotter and hotter, and her feet became so tired that she could scarcely drag one of them after another. She had forgotten that she had left Mallowe before lunch, and that she ought to have got a cup of tea, at least, at Maundell. Before she had walked a mile on her way back, she realised that she was frightfully hungry and rather faint.

      “There is not even a cottage where I could get a glass of water,” she thought.

      The basket, which was really comparatively light, began to feel heavy on her arm, and at length she felt sure that a certain burning spot on her left heel must be a blister which was being rubbed by her shoe. How it hurt her, and how tired she was—how tired! And when she left Mallowe—lovely, luxurious Mallowe—she would not go back to her little room all fresh from the Cupps’ autumn house-cleaning, which included the washing and ironing of her Turkey-red hangings and chair-covers; she would be obliged to huddle into any poor place she could find. And Mrs. Cupp and Jane would be in Chichester.

      “But what good fortune it is for them!” she murmured. “They need never be anxious about the future again. How—how wonderful it must be to know that one need not be afraid of the future! I—indeed, I think I really must sit down.”

      She sat down upon the sun-warmed heather and actually let her tear-wet face drop upon her hands.

      “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” she said helplessly. “I must not let myself do this. I mustn’t, Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

      She was so overpowered by her sense of her own weakness that she was conscious of nothing but the fact that she must control it. Upon the elastic moorland road wheels stole upon one without sound. So the wheels of a rapidly driven high cart approached her and were almost at her side before she lifted her head, startled by a sudden consciousness that a vehicle was near her.

      It was Lord Walderhurst’s cart, and even as she gazed at him with alarmed wet eyes, his lordship descended from it and made a sign to his groom, who at once impassively drove on.

      Emily’s lips tried to tremble into a smile; she put out her hand fumblingly toward the fish-basket, and having secured it, began to rise.

      “I—sat down to rest,” she faltered, even apologetically. “I walked to Maundell, and it was so hot.”

      Just at that moment a little breeze sprang up and swept across her cheek. She was so grateful that her smile became less difficult.

      “I got what Lady Maria wanted,” she added, and the childlike dimple in her cheek endeavoured to defy her eyes.

      The Marquis of Walderhurst looked rather odd. Emily had never seen him look like this before. He took a silver flask out of his pocket in a matter-of-fact way, and filled its cup with something.

      “That is sherry,” he said. “Please drink it. You are absolutely faint.”

      She held out her hand eagerly. She could not help it.

      “Oh, thank you—thank you!” she said. “I am so thirsty!” And she drank it as if it were the nectar of the gods.

      “Now, Miss Fox-Seton,” he said, “please sit down again. I came here to drive you back to Mallowe, and the cart will not come back for a quarter of an hour.”

      “You came on purpose!” she exclaimed, feeling, in truth, somewhat awestruck. “But how kind of you, Lord Walderhurst—how good!”

      It was the most unforeseen and amazing experience of her life, and at once she sought for some reason which could connect with his coming some more interesting person than mere Emily Fox-Seton. Oh,—the thought flashed upon her,—he had come for some reason connected with Lady Agatha. He made her sit down on the heather again, and he took a seat beside her. He looked straight into her eyes.

      “You have been crying,” he remarked.

      There was no use denying it. And what was there in the good gray-brown eye, gazing through the monocle, which so moved her by its suggestion of kindness and—and some new feeling?

      “Yes, I have,” she admitted. “I don’t often—but—well, yes, I have.”

      “What was it?”

      It was the most extraordinary thump her heart gave at this moment. She had never felt such an absolute thump. It was perhaps because she was tired. His voice had lowered itself. No man had ever spoken to her before like that. It made one feel as if he was not an exalted person at all; only a kind, kind one. She must not presume upon his kindness and make much of her prosaic troubles. She tried to smile in a proper casual way.

      “Oh, it was a small thing, really,” was her effort at treating the matter lightly; “but it seems more important to me than it would to any one with—with a family. The people I live with—who have been so kind to me—are going away.”

      “The Cupps?” he asked.

      She turned quite round to look at him.

      “How,” she faltered, “did you know about them?”

      “Maria told me,” he answered, “I asked her.”

      It seemed such a human sort of interest to have taken in her. She could not understand. And she had thought he scarcely realised her existence. She said to herself that was so often the case—people were so much kinder than one knew.

      She felt the moisture welling in her eyes, and stared steadily at the heather, trying to wink it away.

      “I am really glad,” she explained hastily. “It is such good fortune for them. Mrs. Cupp’s brother has offered them such a nice home. They need never be anxious again.”

      “But they will leave Mortimer Street—and you will have to give up your room.”

      “Yes. I must find another.” A big drop got the better of her, and flashed on its way down her cheek. “I can find a room, perhaps, but—I can’t find–-” She was obliged to clear her throat.

      “That was why you cried?”

      “Yes.” After which she sat still.

      “You don’t know where you will live?”

      “No.”

      She was looking so straight before her and trying so hard to behave discreetly that she did not see that he had drawn nearer to her. But a moment later she realised it, because he took hold of her hand. His own closed over it firmly.

      “Will you,” he said—“I came here, in fact, to ask you if you will come and live with me?”

      Her heart stood still, quite still. London was so full of ugly stories about things done by men of his rank—stories of transgressions, of follies, of cruelties. So many were open secrets. There were men, who, even while keeping up an outward aspect of respectability, were held accountable for painful things. The lives of well-born struggling women were so hard. Sometimes such nice ones went under because temptation was so great. But she had not thought, she could not have dreamed–-

      She got on her feet and stood upright before him. He rose with her, and because she was a tall woman their eyes were on a level. Her own big and honest ones were wide and full of crystal tears.

      “Oh!” she said in helpless woe. “Oh!”

      It was perhaps the most effective thing a woman ever did. It was so simple that it was heartbreaking. She could not have uttered a word, he was such a powerful and great person, and she was so without help or stay.

      Since