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Flaming June

<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> It was Mrs Greville’s pleasure to be addressed as “Madame” by the members of her household, and the name had spread until it was now adopted as a sobriquet by the entire neighbourhood. The tradesmen instructed their underlings to pay implicit attention to “Madame’s” orders; the townsfolk discussed “Madame’s” clothes and manner, alternately aggrieved and elated, as she smiled upon them, or stared them haughtily in the face. Her friends adopted it for ease, and Mrs Greville herself was well pleased that it should be so. She would have disdained a cheap title, but it seemed fitting that she should be known by a more distinguished and exclusive designation than the vulgar “Mrs”, which was equally the property of the meanest of her dependants. She was a graceful woman, with a narrow face, aquiline features, and a society smile. She dressed perfectly, in soft satins and brocades; not black, but of rich, subdued colours, softened by fichus of lace, while her wonderfully silky white hair was dressed in the latest and most elaborate fashion. To-day, her dress was of a dull heliotrope, a bunch of Parma violets was fastened in the folds of the fichu at the breast, ruffles of old point d’Alençon lace fell back from her wrists, and as she moved there came the glint of diamonds, discreetly hidden away. Elma recalled her mother’s afternoon costume of black cashmere, with prickly jet edging on the cuffs, and felt several degrees more faint and weary from pure nervous collapse. Cornelia beamed in artistic satisfaction. “Mother, you know Mrs Ramsden! This is her daughter, and her friend, Miss—er—Briskett. I happened to be behind a hedge just as their cart overturned. It was all the fault of that lunatic, Mrs Moss—what must she do but stick her blessed parrot cage on the side of the road, to frighten stray horses out of their wits! It’s a mercy they were not all killed. Miss Ramsden has had a severe shock.” “Poor dear! How trying for you!” ejaculated Madame, in gushing tones of sympathy. (What she really said was “Paw dar!” as Cornelia was quick to note; storing up the fact, to produce next time she herself was accused of murdering the English language!) “How quite too senseless of Mrs Moss! She really is an impossible woman—but so clean! One can’t expect brains, can one, in persons of that class? So sweet of you to come up, and let us do what we can to comfort you. It is really our fault, isn’t it? Employers’ liability, you know, and that kind of thing! Is the horse hurt? Your hands are hot, dear, but you look white. Now what is it to be? Tea? Wine? Sal volatile? Tell me just what you think would help you most!” She held Elma’s hand in her own, and stretched out the other towards Cornelia, thus making both girls feel the warmth of her welcome. Elma smiled her pretty, shy smile, but left it to her friend to reply. She was considerably astonished at the sudden development of anxiety which the answer displayed. “I guess, if you don’t mind, Miss Ramsden had better lie right-down for a spell. She’s had some brandy, and a cup of tea would be pretty comforting, but it’s rest she needs most of all. It’s a pretty hard strain sitting by, and watching someone else driving straight to glory. When you’ve got something to do, there’s not so much time to think. The spill was bound to come, so it was up to me to choose the softest place!” Mrs Greville stared, in obvious disregard of the meaning of the words. “Why, you are American! How odd! I’ve never met an American in Norton before, in all the years I have lived here!” “I’m not a mite surprised!” replied Cornelia, with a depth of meaning which her hearers failed to fathom. They imagined that she was humbly appreciative of her own good fortune in visiting a neighbourhood as yet preserved from the desecration of the American tourists, whereas she was mentally reviewing the sleepy shops where the assistants took a solid five minutes to procure twopence change, the broken-down flies which crawled to and from the station; the tortoise-like round of village life. “If Providence had sent over half a dozen more like me a dozen years ago, there’s no saying but they might be rubbing their knuckles into their eyes by now, and beginning to wake up! I’ve got to butt right in, if I’m to make any mark by the end of three months!” Such were the young woman’s mental reflections, while Geoffrey rang the bell and anticipated his mother’s order for tea. He was anxious that Elma should lie down then and there, but she refused to do so, with a glance from the delicate cushions to her own dusty boots. Cornelia’s openly expressed solicitude had had the not unnatural result of increasing her feeling of exhaustion, and the colour flamed and faded in her cheeks as she endeavoured to drink tea and take part in the conversation which ensued. Mother and son watched her continuously, the one with unconcealed anxiety, the other with a wholly impersonal admiration, as though the girl were a new article of furniture, which fitted unusually well into its niche. Her air was kindly enough, but too dispassionate to be sympathetic. Elma Ramsden hardly counted as an independent human being in the estimation of Madame Greville, but she was a lovely piece of flesh and blood, at whom it was pleasant to look. It would be a thousand pities if her beauty were marred. It was more in a spirit of a connoisseur than a friend that she made the inquiry which her son was already longing to prompt. “My dear child, you look very ill! How are we going to get you home? Your own cart is injured, you say. I think you had better have the brougham, where you can rest against the cushions. You shall have our horses, of course. They won’t run away with you, though I don’t say they have never done it before! I like a horse with a spirit of its own, but these two have been out to-day, so they ought to be pretty quiet.” At this reassuring speech Elma turned white to the lips, and for a moment swayed in her seat, as if about to faint. Cornelia sprang to her side, while Geoffrey whispered to his mother in urgent tones, to which she listened with lifted brows, half-petulant, half-amused. A final nod and shrug proved her consent, and she turned to Elma with a gracious air of hospitality. Madame could never be less than gracious to a guest in her own house! “My dear child, forgive me! I did not realise how unnerved you were. Of course, you must not dream of returning home to-night. Your mother and I are old friends, and she will trust me to take care of you. Your friend will tell her that you are going to rest quietly here until you are better. Quite a charity, I assure you, to keep me company! It will remind me of the days before my own Carol deserted me for that monster, and went off to India. Only daughters should not be allowed to marry in their mother’s lifetime. Remember that when your time comes! You won’t, of course, but it’s horribly ungrateful all the same. Now that’s settled! To-morrow they can send you out some things, but for to-night I can supply all you need. A tea-gown fits anyone, and I’ve a dream which has just come home, that will suit you to distraction. Don’t worry any more, dear—it’s all settled!” But Elma was palpitating with agitation. That she, Elma Ramsden, should be invited to spend several days at Norton Manor seemed altogether too unlooked for and extraordinary a happening to be realised. She was overcome with gratitude, with regret, with incredulity, for of course it was impossible to accept. Madame could not be in earnest! The invitation was merely a polite form of speech! Even if she did mean it, her own mother would strongly disapprove, for did she not consider Madame a hopeless worldling, and her son a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a type of everything that a young man should not be? Oh, no! it was quite, quite impossible, all the more so that she longed, longed intensely; longed from the very bottom of her heart, to accept! Elma straightened herself in her chair, protesting, explaining, thanking, and refusing in confused broken sentences, to which none of her hearers paid the least attention. Mrs Greville and her son waived objections aside with the easy certainty of victory, while Cornelia cried briskly— “You don’t hev a choice! I undertook to bring you out, but I won’t take you back if I know it, until you ken sit behind a horse without going off into hysterics every time he tosses his mane. Your mother’d be a heap more scared to see you coming back looking like a death’s head, than to hear that you were comfortably located with a friend till you pulled round. I guess there’s nothing for you to do but to say ‘Thank you,’ as prettily as you know how, and settle down to be comfortable. Why make a fuss?” That last exhortation was decisive! Elma blushingly subsided into the silence which gives consent, and was forthwith escorted to the room which was to be given over to her use, there to rest quietly until it should be time to dress for dinner. “Unless she would like to go to bed at once. Do you think that would be the better plan?” Madame asked Cornelia in a whispered aside, but that young lady was quick to veto a retirement which would be so detrimental to the progress of the “cure” which she had at heart. “Why, no, indeed! To be left alone to worry herself ill, brooding over the whole affair, is about the worst thing that could happen to her just now. It was only a play-baby spill, but it seems the worst accident that the world ever knew to her. She’s got to be roused! I’ll sit up here and see that she rests quietly for an hour, and then I’ll fix her up for the evening, so she can lie on a sofa and listen while you talk. I must get home by seven o’clock to soothe the old ladies. It would be real sweet if you’d lend something to take me back! I’m afraid I ken’t walk all the way.” Madame laughed pleasantly. “I wish we could keep you, too, but it would not be kind to Mrs Ramsden to leave her with only a message to-night. I must hope to have the pleasure another time. You American girls are so bright and amusing, and I love to be amused. My son wishes me to have a companion, but a well-conducted young woman who knew her place would exasperate me to distraction, and I should kill anyone who took liberties, so the situation is a little hard to fill. Do tell me who you are? Where are you staying in Norton, and how long have you been in England?” “Just over three weeks, and I like it pretty well, thank you,” returned Cornelia, anticipating the inevitable question, “though I guess I’ve not struck the liveliest spot in the land. I’m located with my aunt, Miss Briskett, in the Park, and my poppar’s coming over to fetch me in the fall.” Madame’s interest waned with surprising suddenness. Of an American girl, almost more than any other, is that worldly adage true that it is wise to treat her politely, since there is no knowing whom she may ultimately marry. A girl of such striking appearance and obvious affluence might belong to anyone, or become anything in these radical, topsy-turvy days. The mother of a son with broad acres and small income could not but remember that a large proportion of present-day duchesses hail from across the water, but it was a very different matter when the young woman suddenly assumed the personality of the niece of a middle-class spinster resident at the Manor gates. To Mrs Greville, Miss Briskett stood as a type of all that was narrow, conventional, and depressing. As much as she could trouble herself to dislike any woman outside her own world, she disliked the rigid, strait-laced spinster, and was fully aware that the dislike was returned. Miss Briskett invariably declined the yearly invitations which were doled out to her in company with the other townsfolk, satisfied that in so doing she proclaimed a dignified disapproval of the frivolities of the Manor. “Thank goodness, that old cat’s not coming!” was Madame’s invariable reception of the refusals, but at the bottom of her heart she resented the fact that so insignificant a person should dare to reject her hospitality. “Miss Briskett’s niece. Really! How ver-ry interesting!” she drawled, in a tone eloquent of the most superlative indifference. Her easy graciousness of manner became suddenly instinct with patronage, her eyelids drooped with languid disdain. She sauntered round the room, giving a touch here and there, turned over the garments which her maid had laid on the bed ready for Elma’s use, and finally sailed towards the door. “We will leave you to rest, then, as long as you think fit. Pray ring for anything you require!” The door closed, leaving Elma to snoodle down on her pillows, with a sigh of relief, while Cornelia lifted her skirt in both hands and danced a pas seul, bowing low towards the doorway, blowing kisses from her finger-tips the while, after the manner of riders in a circus. She pranced and pirouetted, while Elma protested in shocked surprise. It struck her that Cornelia’s anxiety as to her own condition had died a remarkably sudden death with the disappearance of Mrs Greville from the room. A pantomimic display was not the best way to ensure quiet and repose, nor was there much sympathy to be read in the expression of the twinkling golden eyes. Elma found herself blushing before their gaze, and guiltily drooping her lashes. “Cornelia, what do you mean?” “Columns, my dear, which sweet little buds like you ought to know nothing about! You lie still, and look pretty, and ask no questions; that’s your part in the play! You’ve got to remember that you’ve had a shock, and your nervous system’s all to pieces. You don’t have no pain, nor suffering, and anyone to look at you might think you were quite robust; but just as soon as you make the least exertion, you’re all of a flop, and have to be waited on hand and foot!—That’s so, isn’t it now!” Elma’s delicate brows were furrowed in her attempt to make out what Cornelia did mean, and what she didn’t! There was a note in her voice which did not ring true—a good-naturedly mocking note, which accorded ill with the words themselves. She blushed still deeper, and put on an air of wounded dignity. “I certainly am very far from well. My head feels so light and swimming. I should be very sorry to have to walk far at present. Coming upstairs just now tried me horribly.” Cornelia clapped her hands in approval. “Capital! capital! Keep it at that, and you can’t do better. Go slow, and don’t try to mend all of a sudden. Even when you do begin to buck up, in a day or two’s time, the very sight of a horse will set you palpitating for all you’re worth. You’ll kind-er feel as if you’d rather crawl home on all fours than sit behind the steadiest old nag that was ever raised. It’s three or four miles from home, isn’t it, or maybe more—much too far for an invalid to attempt, for a week at least. Just a little saunter in the grounds will be all you’re fit for this side Sunday, with someone to support you carefully as you go! ... You’ll be apt to turn giddy if you go about alone. ... Have you gotten that nicely off by heart now, so you won’t go forgetting at the wrong moments?” “Why should I forget? Surely my own feelings will be my best guide?” “Yes, ’um!” said Cornelia, demurely. She let her lids droop over her tell-tale eyes, and stood beside the couch for a long, eloquent moment, during which the flickering colour deepened on Elma’s cheek; then turned aside, took down a book from a shelf, and settled herself comfortably on a wicker chair. “I guess we understand one another, and there’s no more to be said. Now for one hour by the clock you’ve to shut your eyes and be quiet. Go to sleep if you can! I’ll wake you up in time for the prinking.” Elma buried her head in the cushions and shed a silent tear. Cornelia was laughing at her, and she could not bear it. Her mind, trained to habits of introspection, began at once to wonder if she were really pretending, as the other seemed to think; if the agitation which she felt was not so much the result of the accident, as caused by the excitement of seeing Geoffrey Greville, and meeting his ardent glances. The prospect of remaining in the same house and of meeting him from hour to hour was incredible but delightful, yet Elma would give it up a hundred times over, rather than accept hospitality under false pretences. Was it her duty to insist upon returning home? Should she announce that she felt so much refreshed by her rest that there was no longer any reason why she should be treated as an invalid? The sinking feeling of disappointment which followed this inspiration was easily mistaken for a physical symptom. Yes. She was ill! It was quite true that she felt faint. Surreptitiously she felt her own pulse, and was convinced that its beat had increased. She thought of the expression of Geoffrey’s eyes as he lifted her from the ground—blushed, and felt certain that she was feverish. Yes, she would stay! It would be foolish and ungrateful to refuse. Mother had always warned her not to run risks where health was concerned... A soft little sigh of contentment sounded through the room. If Elma had been fifteen years younger this was the moment at which a warm, sticky little thumb would have crept into her mouth, as a sign that earthly cares were swept aside, and that she had resigned herself to slumber; being a young woman of sweet and twenty, she snoodled her head into the pillow, and fell fast asleep. For over an hour she slept, and woke to find Cornelia leaning back in her chair watching her, while the book lay closed on her lap. For a moment she hardly recognised the face which she had always seen animated, self-confident, and defiant, but which was now softened into so sweet a tenderness. A lightning thought flashed through her mind that it was thus Cornelia would look, if ever in the time to come she watched by the bedside of her own child. She smiled lazily, and stretched out a caressing hand. “Why, Cornelia, have you been sitting there all the time? How dull for you! How long have I been asleep?” “It’s half after five, so we must be lively, if I am to get back in time to settle the old ladies, and get ready for dinner. Hustle now! I’ll help you to shed your own duds, and then pipe up for the transformation! That tea-gown’s the limit! I thought I knew the last thing there was to learn about clothes, but I wouldn’t be above going in for a course of too-ition from the woman who fixed those frills! This is going to be an historic occasion for you, my friend. Your sinful nature is kinder dead to the joys of frillies, but there’s going to be a big awakening! The woman isn’t born who could come out of that gown the same as she went in!” She lifted the blue serge skirt over Elma’s head, and surveyed the plain hem with tragic eyes. “It’s pretty hard luck to be born a woman instead of a man, but it softens it some to have a swirl of frills round one’s ankles! If I’d to poke around with a hem, I’d give up altogether.—Now, then, sit still where you are, while I fix your hair! I’m going to do it a way of my own, that will be more comfy for leaning up against cushions. If you don’t like it you can say so, but I guess you will.” She brushed the soft light tresses to the top of Elma’s head, and arranged them skilfully in massed-up curls and loops. From time to time she retreated a step or two as if to study the effect, returning to heighten a curl, or loosen the sweep over the forehead. In reality she was reproducing, as nearly as possible, the coiffure of one of the beauties in miniature hanging on the drawing-room walls behind the couch on which Elma would probably pass the evening. It might chance that the eyes of mother or son would observe the likeness between the two girlish faces, a fact which could not but score in Elma’s favour! When the dainty white robe was fastened, and each ribbon and lace patted into its place by skilful fingers, then, and not till then, Elma was allowed to regard herself in the glass. It was a startling revelation of her own beauty, but the predominant feeling was not elation, but distress. Accustomed as she was to a puritan-like simplicity, Elma felt almost shocked at her own changed appearance. The sweeping folds of the gown gave additional height to her figure, her neck looked like a round white pillar above the square of lace; the quaintly arranged tresses gave a touch of piquancy to her gentle features. An involuntary and quite impersonal admiration was followed by quick repentance. “Cornelia, I can’t! I can’t go down like this! I daren’t do it. I look like an actress—so dressed up! Just as if I wanted to look nice!” Cornelia sniffed eloquently. “Well—don’t you?” “Yes, but—but I don’t like to look as if I did! Oh, Cornelia, couldn’t I put on my own dress again, and do my hair the old way? I’d be so much happier!” “The Grevilles wouldn’t! You’ve got to remember that they are used to finery, and not to having young women sitting round in blue serge in the evening. It seems gaudy to you, but it’s just dead, everyday-level to them, and won’t raise a ripple. You look a Daisy, and I’m proud of you, and if you had a mite of feeling you’d say ‘Thank you,’ instead of finding fault after all my work!” Elma wheeled round; surprised another glance of tender admiration, and held out impulsive hands. “Cornelia, you are good! I do thank you; I know quite well that you—you are trying—I do love you, Cornelia!” “Oh, shucks!” cried Cornelia, hastily. “Don’t gush; I hate gush! Take my arm, and come along downstairs. Lean on it pretty heavily, mind. Your spirit’s too much for your strength, and you are apt to forget that you are an invalid. You’ve got to keep a check on yourself, my dear, and remember that a nervous shock’s a ticklish thing, and needs a lot of tending!” Elma’s head drooped; she twisted her fingers together, and glanced beneath the lashes at her friend’s face—glanced timidly, questioningly, as it were, in dread. Cornelia deliberately—winked! <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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