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

of her life was undoubtedly that in which she stood upon the heather, tall and straight and simple, her hands hanging by her sides, her large, tear-filled hazel eyes gazing straight into his. In the femininity of her frank defencelessness there was an appeal to nature’s self in man which was not quite of earth. And for several seconds they stood so and gazed into each other’s souls—the usually unilluminated nobleman and the prosaic young woman who lodged on a third floor back in Mortimer Street.

      Then, quite quickly, something was lighted in his eyes, and he took a step toward her.

      “Good heavens!” he demanded. “What do you suppose I am asking of you?”

      “I don’t—know,” she answered; “I don’t—know.”

      “My good girl,” he said, even with some irritation, “I am asking you to be my wife. I am asking you to come and live with me in an entirely respectable manner, as the Marchioness of Walderhurst.”

      Emily touched the breast of her brown linen blouse with the tips of her fingers.

      “You—are—asking—me?” she said.

      “Yes,” he answered. His glass had dropped out of his eye, and he picked it up and replaced it. “There is Black with the cart,” he said. “I will explain myself with greater clearness as we drive back to Mallowe.”

      The basket of fish was put in the cart, and Emily Fox-Seton was put in. Then the marquis got in himself, and took the reins from his groom.

      “You will walk back, Black,” he said, “by that path,” with a wave of the hand in a diverging direction.

      As they drove across the heather, Emily was trembling softly from head to foot. She could have told no human being what she felt. Only a woman who had lived as she had lived and who had been trained as she had been trained could have felt it. The brilliance of the thing which had happened to her was so unheard of and so undeserved, she told herself. It was so incredible that, even with the splendid gray mare’s high-held head before her and Lord Walderhurst by her side, she felt that she was only part of a dream. Men had never said “things” to her, and a man was saying them—the Marquis of Walderhurst was saying them. They were not the kind of things every man says or said in every man’s way, but they so moved her soul that she quaked with joy.

      “I am not a marrying man,” said his lordship, “but I must marry, and I like you better than any woman I have ever known. I do not generally like women. I am a selfish man, and I want an unselfish woman. Most women are as selfish as I am myself. I used to like you when I heard Maria speak of you. I have watched you and thought of you ever since I came here. You are necessary to every one, and you are so modest that you know nothing about it. You are a handsome woman, and you are always thinking of other women’s good looks.”

      Emily gave a soft little gasp.

      “But Lady Agatha,” she said. “I was sure it was Lady Agatha.”

      “I don’t want a girl,” returned his lordship. “A girl would bore me to death. I am not going to dry-nurse a girl at the age of fifty-four. I want a companion.”

      “But I am so far from clever,” faltered Emily.

      The marquis turned in his driving-seat to look at her. It was really a very nice look he gave her. It made Emily’s cheeks grow pink and her simple heart beat.

      “You are the woman I want,” he said. “You make me feel quite sentimental.”

      When they reached Mallowe, Emily had upon her finger the ruby which Lady Maria had graphically described as being “as big as a trouser button.” It was, indeed, so big that she could scarcely wear her glove over it. She was still incredible, but she was blooming like a large rose. Lord Walderhurst had said so many “things” to her that she seemed to behold a new heaven and a new earth. She had been so swept off her feet that she had not really been allowed time to think, after that first gasp, of Lady Agatha.

      When she reached her bedroom she almost returned to earth as she remembered it. Neither of them had dreamed of this—neither of them. What could she say to Lady Agatha? What would Lady Agatha say to her, though it had not been her fault? She had not dreamed that such a thing could be possible. How could she, oh, how could she?

      She was standing in the middle of her room with clasped hands. There was a knock upon the door, and Lady Agatha herself came to her.

      What had occurred? Something. It was to be seen in the girl’s eyes, and in a certain delicate shyness in her manner.

      “Something very nice has happened,” she said.

      “Something nice?” repeated Emily.

      Lady Agatha sat down. The letter from Curzon Street was in her hand half unfolded.

      “I have had a letter from mamma. It seems almost bad taste to speak of it so soon, but we have talked to each other so much, and you are so kind, that I want to tell you myself. Sir Bruce Norman has been to talk to papa about—about me.”

      Emily felt that her cup filled to the brim at the moment.

      “He is in England again?”

      Agatha nodded gently.

      “He only went away to—well, to test his own feelings before he spoke. Mamma is delighted with him. I am going home tomorrow.”

      Emily made a little swoop forward.

      “You always liked him?” she said.

      Lady Agatha’s delicate mounting colour was adorable.

      “I was quite unhappy,” she owned, and hid her lovely face in her hands.

      In the morning-room Lord Walderhurst was talking to Lady Maria.

      “You need not give Emily Fox-Seton any more clothes, Maria,” he said. “I am going to supply her in future. I have asked her to marry me.”

      Lady Maria lightly gasped, and then began to laugh.

      “Well, James,” she said, “you have certainly much more sense than most men of your rank and age.”

      PART TWO

Chapter Seven

       Table of Contents

      When Miss Emily Fox-Seton was preparing for the extraordinary change in her life which transformed her from a very poor, hardworking woman into one of the richest marchionesses in England, Lord Walderhurst’s cousin, Lady Maria Bayne, was extremely good to her. She gave her advice, and though advice is a cheap present as far as the giver is concerned, there are occasions when it may be a very valuable one to the recipient. Lady Maria’s was valuable to Emily Fox-Seton, who had but one difficulty, which was to adjust herself to the marvellous fortune which had befallen her.

      There was a certain thing Emily found herself continually saying. It used to break from her lips when she was alone in her room, when she was on her way to her dressmaker’s, and in spite of herself, sometimes when she was with her whilom patroness.

      “I can’t believe it is true! I can’t believe it!”

      “I don’t wonder, my dear girl,” Lady Maria answered the second time she heard it. “But what circumstances demand of you is that you should learn to.”

      “Yes,” said Emily, “I know I must. But it seems like a dream. Sometimes,” passing her hand over her forehead with a little laugh, “I feel as if I should suddenly find myself wakened in the room in Mortimer Street by Jane Cupp bringing in my morning tea. And I can see the wallpaper and the Turkey-red cotton curtains. One of them was an inch or so too short. I never could afford to buy the new bit, though I always intended to.”

      “How much was the stuff