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‘Do you think I will permit my ward to make herself the talk of the town? Do you think it suits my pride to have my ward drive down to Brighton wind-blown, dishevelled, a butt for every kind of coarse wit, an object of disgust to any person of taste and refinement? Take a look at yourself, my good girl!’
He seized her by the shoulders as he spoke, and twisted her round to face the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. She saw to her annoyance that her hair, escaping from under the close hat she wore, was whipped into a tangle, and her habit powdered with dust. It made her more angry than ever. She wrenched herself free, and cried: ‘Yes, an object of disgust for you and any other dandy, I daresay! Do you think I care for your good opinion? It is a matter of the supremest indifference to me! From the moment when I first set eyes on you I have disliked you – yes, and mistrusted you too! I do not know what your motive has been in trying to overcome my dislike, but you have not succeeded!’
‘Evidently not,’ he said, a grim smile curling the corners of his mouth. ‘I can readily believe that, but I shall be obliged to you if you will tell me what I have done to earn your mistrust.’
Having no very clear idea, but, woman-like, having merely used the most wounding phrases she could think of, she ignored this home-question, and said: ‘Do not imagine that I am not well aware of the reason for this unmannerly outburst in you! You are less concerned with the appearance I may present than with having had your own commands set aside! You must always be the master; you cannot bear to have your will gainsaid.’
‘Very true; I cannot,’ he replied. ‘I might say the same of you, Miss Taverner. A strong desire of having your own way has led you into a scrape which might, were I not here to enforce your obedience to my commands, have damaged your reputation more seriously than you know. These hoyden-tricks may do very well in the wilds of Yorkshire; I am happy to say that I know nothing of the manners obtaining there; but they will not serve here. You have been grossly at fault. Your own principles should tell you so; it should not be necessary for me to inform you of it. As for your obliging description of my character, I shall take leave to tell you that this guardianship, which was foisted on to my shoulders, and which has been from the outset a source of trouble and annoyance to me, comprises more than the mere management of your fortune. You had the goodness once, Miss Taverner, to inform me that you were glad you were not my daughter. So am I glad, but however little I may relish the post I stand to you in the place of a father, and if you do not obey me I shall be strongly tempted to use you as I have very little doubt your father would if he could see you at this moment.’
‘I have only one thing to be thankful for!’ cried Judith. ‘It is that in a very short time now it will be out of your power to threaten me or to interfere in my concerns! You may be certain of this at least, Lord Worth: once your guardianship of me ends I shall not willingly see you again!’
‘Thank you! You have now given full rein to your temper, and can have no more to say,’ he replied, and turned, and held open the door. ‘Your chaise should be ready by this time, ma’am.’
She moved towards the door, but before she could reach it, Peregrine had come hastily into the room, looking hot, and rather more dusty and dishevelled than she was herself.
‘What the devil’s amiss?’ demanded Peregrine. ‘I thought you had been half-way to Brighton by now! I have had the wretchedest luck, I can tell you!’
‘Lord Worth,’ said Judith, controlling her voice with an effort, ‘has seen proper to declare our race at an end. It does not suit his dignity to have his ward drive herself into Brighton.’
‘Much we care for that!’ said Peregrine. ‘Damme, Worth, this is a wager! You can’t stop my sister now!’
‘I will say what I have to say to you later,’ replied Worth, unpleasantly. ‘Miss Taverner, I am waiting to hand you into your chaise!’
‘You may continue your journey,’ she said. ‘When my brother is with me I need no protection but his.’
‘As we have seen,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Well, I warned you, Miss Taverner, that I should compel your obedience.’
He came forward, but Peregrine stepped quickly between them with his fists up, and said sharply: ‘And I will warn you, sir, to leave my sister alone!’
‘I am afraid that noble gesture is wasted on me,’ said Worth. ‘Console yourself with the reflection that if I did hit you, you would be more than sorry to have provoked me to it.’
Miss Taverner pushed by her brother. ‘Do not make a scene, Perry, I beg of you! I am ready to go with you, Lord Worth.’
He bowed; she went past him out of the room, and a couple of minutes later she was being handed up into the waiting chaise. The door was shut on her; she heard her guardian give an order to the post-boys, and sank back into a corner of the chaise as the horses moved forward.
She found that she was trembling, her thoughts in confusion, and a lump in her throat. All her pleasu
re in going to Brighton was at an end; she knew herself to be the wretchedest creature alive. There could be no defending her conduct; she had realised at Horley how indecorous it was, and had now the mortification of having earned Worth’s condemnation. He thought of her with disgust; he had not scrupled to humiliate her, nor to address her in terms of the most galling contempt. It was small wonder that she should have lost her temper with him: he had been unpardonable. The better understanding which had seemed to be growing up between them was quite at an end. She did not care; unless he begged her pardon she could not bring herself to meet him again without feelings of the strongest revulsion, and she was pretty sure that he never would beg her pardon. Her credit with him was utterly destroyed; he was odious, insolent, overbearing, and she herself little better than vulgar Lady Lade.
These agitating reflections produced their natural result. Tears poured silently down Miss Taverner’s cheeks, and picturesque villages, turnpikes, and views passed unnoticed.When she was at last set down at the house on the Marine Parade, not even the sight of the sea had the power to elevate her spirits. She hurried into the house with her veil pulled down, and almost ran up the stairs to indulge her misery in the seclusion of her own bedchamber.
Seventeen
IT WAS MANY DAYS BEFORE MISS TAVERNER COULD BE restored to the enjoyment of composure, and long before the evils of her journey ceased to be felt. She struggled to support her spirits, but they were quite worn down, and although she might assume an air of calm cheerfulness, her reflections were all mortifying, and her heart very heavy.
Peregrine’s arrival in Brighton, half an hour later than her own, brought her no comfort. What had passed between him and Worth she did not ask, nor he divulge. He came to her sulky, half-defiant, half-shamefaced, ready to abuse Worth, but reluctant to discuss the cause of their disagreement. It was evident that Worth had not spared him. Judith’s spirits sank still lower. She felt herself to have bred dissension between the two men, and no acknowledgment now (which would indeed have been hard to make) of having deserved Worth’s censure would avail to soften Peregrine’s indignation. No good could come of talking over the affair; it must be left to time to remedy the harm that had been done. Nor could she expect Peregrine to see it all as she did. He was conscious of having done wrong, perhaps secretly sorry for it, but it was after all no great matter: he could forget everything but Worth’s part in it in a very short while, and sally forth with tolerable light-heartedness to take a look at Brighton.
When Mrs Scattergood was set down at the house it was some hours later, and Judith was able to meet her with the appearance at least of composure. But it was a hard case to be obliged to listen to her reproaches, and to give her some account of what had passed at Cuckfield. But even Mrs Scattergood could not talk for ever, and by the time they sat down to dinner she was ready to forget it all, and turn her thoughts to what Brighton offered in the way of entertainment.
The house on the Marine Parade was neat, and sufficiently commodious to satisfy its tenants. They could have wished that the drawing-rooms had been more handsome, but were obliged to admit that the furnishings of the whole, though not rich, were above what was generally to be found in houses let out for hire at the seaside. The want of elegance was soon remedied by the arrangement of all the pretty trifles and hangings which Mrs Scattergood had had the forethought to bring from Brook Street in one of her many trunks. The first evening passed quietly in making themselves at home; both ladies went early to bed, the elder to place slices of raw veal on her face to prevent wrinkles, and the younger to lie awake half the night in fruitless reflection.
This wretchedness could not long endure. In the morning the sight of the sun sparkling on the sea produced an alleviation; and the air, which was fresh and salt-tanged, invigorated the spirits. Some feeling of lowness must still remain, but misery could not persist. It was in anticipation of a day of interest and pleasure that Judith joined her brother and Mrs Scattergood in the breakfast-parlour.
From the circumstance of her eyes having been full of tears when her chaise had driven into Brighton the day before, Judith had been hardly conscious of her surroundings, and had not even looked up to see the Pavilion, which was placed to catch the traveller’s gaze immediately upon entering the town. That must therefore be the first object of their morning’s walk, and soon after breakfast the two ladies set out together, accompanied as far as the Steyne by Peregrine, who was bound for Ragget’s club.
Five minutes’ walk along the sea-front brought them to the southern end of the Steyne, and a view, though not the best, of the Pavilion was at once obtained. They bent their steps inland, and began to walk up the glazed red-brick pavement of the Steyne, past the neat gardens laid out in geometrical designs, past Donaldson’s Circulating Library, until Pavilion Parade was reached, and they stood immediately before the gleaming and costly edifice itself.
The Pavilion, which had been built for the Prince Regent by Mr Henry Holland, occupied a frontage of four hundred and eighty feet, and stood in ten acres of ground. It had been designed in accordance with a vague idea conceived by the Prince upon being sent a present of some Chinese wallpaper, and startling and original was the result. At first glance the sight-seeing visitor might well imagine himself to have strayed into some land of make-believe, so gorgeous and unconventional was the palace. The Greek, the Moorish, and the Russian styles predominated. It was fronted by an Ionic colonnade and entablature; a succession of green-roofed domes and minarets rose above a running battlement that surmounted the upper line of the whole building; and two cones, equal in height to the central and largest dome, crowned each wing. The pinnacles and the minarets, which were placed at every angle of the structure, were made of Bath stone, the rest of the palace of stuccoed brick. In front of each of the wings was an open arcade composed of arches, separated by octagonal columns, and ornamented by trellis-work. The entrance was upon the western side, but the principal front, which Mrs Scattergood and Miss Taverner were gazing at, was to the east, and opened on to a lawn, which was separated from the parade by a low wall, and a dwarf enclosure. A captious critic had once remarked, on first seeing the palace, that it was as though St Paul’s had littered, and brought forth a brood of cupolas, but no such profane thought crossed Miss Taverner’s mind. If the Pavilion had not been conceived with quite that simplicity of taste which was proper, it was not for her to cavil; she was not to be setting up her judgment in opposition to Mr Holland’s.
