“No, child. Why should he interfere? It is no business of his.”
“Then why was mother so angry? She walked up and down the room in a towering passion. ‘This is your doing,’ she cried. ‘If she were not your adoring slave, she would have jumped at so handsome a sweetheart. This is your witchcraft. It is you she loves—you—you—you!’ His lordship stood dumb, and pointed to me. ‘Do you forget your child is present?’ he said. ‘I forget everything except that everybody uses me shamefully,’ she cried. ‘I was only made to be slighted and trampled upon.’ His lordship made no answer, but walked to the door in that way he ever has when he is angered—pale, frowning, silent. I was standing in his way, and he gripped me by the arm, and dragged me out of the room. I dare venture there is a bruise on my arm where he held me. I know his fingers hurt me with their grip; and I could hear my lady screaming and sobbing as he took me away. But he would not let me go back to her. He would only send her women. ‘Your mother has an interval of madness,’ he said; ‘you are best out of her presence.’ The news of the Dutch ships came the same evening, and my father rode off towards London, and my mother ordered her coach, and followed an hour after. They seemed both distracted; and only because you refused Sir Denzil.”
“I cannot help her ladyship’s foolishness, Papillon. She has no occasion for any of this trouble. I am her dutiful, affectionate sister; but my heart is not hers to give or to refuse.”
“But was it indeed my father’s fault? Is it because you adore him that you refused Sir Denzil?”
“No—no—no. My affection for my brother—he has been to me as a brother—can make no difference in my regard for any one else. One cannot fall in love at another’s ordering, or be happy with a husband of another’s choice. You will discover that for yourself, Papillon, perhaps, when you are a woman.”
“Oh, I mean to marry for wealth and station, as all the clever women do,” said Papillon, with an upward jerk of her delicate chin. “Mrs. Lewin always says I ought to be a duchess. I should like to have married the Duke of Monmouth, and then, who knows, I might have been a Queen. The King’s other sons are too young for me, and they will never have Monmouth’s chance. But, indeed, sweetheart, you ought to marry Sir Denzil, and come and live near us at Chilton. You would make us all happy.”
“Ma tres chère, it is so easy to talk—but when thou thyself art a woman——”
“I shall never care for such trumpery as love. I mean to have a grand house—ever so much grander than Fareham House. Perhaps I may marry a Frenchman, and have a salon, and all the wits about me on my day. I would make it gayer than Mademoiselle de Scudery’s Saturdays, which my governess so loves to talk of. There should be less talk and more dancing. But listen, p’tite tante,” clasping her arms suddenly round Angela’s neck, “I won’t leave this spot till you have promised to change your mind about Denzil. I like him vastly; and I’m sure there’s no reason why you should not love him—unless you really are his lordship’s adoring slave,” emphasising those last words, “and he has forbidden you.”
Angela sat dumb, her eyes fixed on vacancy.
“Why, you are like the lady in those lines you made me learn, who ‘sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.’ Dearest, why so sad? Remember that fine house—and the dairy that was once a chapel. You could turn it into a chapel again if you liked, and have your own chaplain. His Majesty takes no heed of what we Papists do—being a Papist himself at heart, they say—though poor wretches are dragged off to gaol for worshipping in a conventicle. What is a conventicle? Will you not change your mind, dearest? Answer, answer, answer!”