Bonaparte escaped from Elba, to a most eligible young lady. I will not tell you her name—it is all ancient history now, and truly I do not blame her overmuch. He came back, looking so dreadfully—I tell you, his appearance now is nothing to what it was then—and with his sweet temper so marred with black rages. Well, what else could she do but ask to be excused from the engagement? But he has never got over it—at least, not until now. So you can see why I am so full of hope about Lady Heverdon’s visit. I do not really care what she is like, if she can make Mark forget his dreadful appearance—or think that she forgets it. Of course, we never mention it.” There was infinite reproach in her tone.
“Perhaps it would have been better if you had, ma’am.” Though horrified at what she had done, Marianne’s spirit had not quite deserted her. She was nerving herself for the apology she knew she must make.
She bolted into it as soon as Mauleverer joined them, crossing the room to meet him as he came in. “Mr. Mauleverer, I owe you the deepest possible apology. Will you forgive me? Your mother has been telling me ...”
“I am sure she has.” He cut her short. “I am only surprised she had not before, but it is not a subject we are much given to discussing. As for your apologies; there is no need for them. I expect I richly deserved your rebuke. And after all, it does not much matter how I came to be so disfigured. The disagreeable fact is quite enough. I feel I ought myself constantly to be apologizing to you, or any other lady for the pain she must feel in looking at me.”
“Nonsense,” said Marianne.
“I beg your pardon?” He was not used to being addressed so abruptly.
“I said, ‘nonsense.’ Do you really think I, or any other young lady for the matter of that, could be so lily-livered as to be swooning-ripe for a little thing like a scar? And one gained so honorably too. You do us females less than justice, Mr. Mauleverer.” And then she remembered the girl who had jilted him, and felt herself blushing furiously.
But he was looking at her with unwonted kindness. “Thank you, Miss Lamb,” he said, “you give me new courage.”
He was thinking, of course, of next day’s meeting with Lady Heverdon. Tossing on her sleepless bed that night, Marianne wondered what the unknown beauty would really be like. That Mauleverer was oceans deep in love with her she no longer doubted for a moment, and his mother seemed to have resigned herself to the prospect of the match. But what of the gay young widow with the faintly tarnished name? Might she not think she could do better for herself than a scarred and short-tempered politician? But then, Marianne reminded herself, Mauleverer was Lord Heverdon if he would accept the title—might find he had to, willy-nilly ... It was none of it, somehow, conducive to sleep, and when, at last, it came, it was troubled by dreams, mounting to the familiar, recurrent nightmare of the terror ... Only this time her pursuer was no longer an unknown figure, but, catching her at last, revealed himself as Mauleverer, now hideously scarred on both sides of his face.
V
The whole house shone. The footmen were in dress livery and powdered wigs, the maids in clean striped dimity gowns and aprons, and Mrs. Mauleverer was resplendent in a morning dress of purple gros de Naples , whose enormous gigot sleeves were supposed, Marianne assumed, to make it clear that she never did a hand’s turn of work around the house. Marianne herself was wearing, rather reluctantly, one of her new dresses, a simple figured muslin that the mild June weather made highly suitable. She had seen to it that the whole house was fragrant with flowers from the cutting garden and had herself arranged the huge flat bowl of pansies that perfumed the state guest chamber where once the unlucky Duke of Monmouth had slept.
Lady Heverdon, it seemed, had been visiting in the district, and had told Mauleverer that
“Perhaps it would have been better if you had, ma’am.” Though horrified at what she had done, Marianne’s spirit had not quite deserted her. She was nerving herself for the apology she knew she must make.
She bolted into it as soon as Mauleverer joined them, crossing the room to meet him as he came in. “Mr. Mauleverer, I owe you the deepest possible apology. Will you forgive me? Your mother has been telling me ...”
“I am sure she has.” He cut her short. “I am only surprised she had not before, but it is not a subject we are much given to discussing. As for your apologies; there is no need for them. I expect I richly deserved your rebuke. And after all, it does not much matter how I came to be so disfigured. The disagreeable fact is quite enough. I feel I ought myself constantly to be apologizing to you, or any other lady for the pain she must feel in looking at me.”
“Nonsense,” said Marianne.
“I beg your pardon?” He was not used to being addressed so abruptly.
“I said, ‘nonsense.’ Do you really think I, or any other young lady for the matter of that, could be so lily-livered as to be swooning-ripe for a little thing like a scar? And one gained so honorably too. You do us females less than justice, Mr. Mauleverer.” And then she remembered the girl who had jilted him, and felt herself blushing furiously.
But he was looking at her with unwonted kindness. “Thank you, Miss Lamb,” he said, “you give me new courage.”
He was thinking, of course, of next day’s meeting with Lady Heverdon. Tossing on her sleepless bed that night, Marianne wondered what the unknown beauty would really be like. That Mauleverer was oceans deep in love with her she no longer doubted for a moment, and his mother seemed to have resigned herself to the prospect of the match. But what of the gay young widow with the faintly tarnished name? Might she not think she could do better for herself than a scarred and short-tempered politician? But then, Marianne reminded herself, Mauleverer was Lord Heverdon if he would accept the title—might find he had to, willy-nilly ... It was none of it, somehow, conducive to sleep, and when, at last, it came, it was troubled by dreams, mounting to the familiar, recurrent nightmare of the terror ... Only this time her pursuer was no longer an unknown figure, but, catching her at last, revealed himself as Mauleverer, now hideously scarred on both sides of his face.
V
The whole house shone. The footmen were in dress livery and powdered wigs, the maids in clean striped dimity gowns and aprons, and Mrs. Mauleverer was resplendent in a morning dress of purple gros de Naples , whose enormous gigot sleeves were supposed, Marianne assumed, to make it clear that she never did a hand’s turn of work around the house. Marianne herself was wearing, rather reluctantly, one of her new dresses, a simple figured muslin that the mild June weather made highly suitable. She had seen to it that the whole house was fragrant with flowers from the cutting garden and had herself arranged the huge flat bowl of pansies that perfumed the state guest chamber where once the unlucky Duke of Monmouth had slept.
Lady Heverdon, it seemed, had been visiting in the district, and had told Mauleverer that
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