CHAPTER XVI.
VENITE.
On the last day of November Joanna was deposited with her box at the gate of Court Royal Lodge. A servant came out, and helped her to carry the box round by the back door into the house. She was taken to her room, where she rapidly divested herself of her travelling clothes and assumed apron and cap. The fellow-servant looked critically at her, and said, ‘Oh my! how young you be! How many sweethearts have you had? Among them a redcoat, I reckon, if you’ve been in Plymouth. I should dearly like to have a redcoat. They be beautiful creatures.’
‘I have no sweetheart,’ answered Joanna.
‘Then I reckon you won’t be long without one here. There be gamekeepers here and the footmen. But of that another time. I tell you this is an easy place. There is no missus. There ought to be proper-ly, but the young lady is swallowed up by the folks at the Court, so she is never here. All the better for us. Master is a good sort of a man—very soft. Lets us have our own way, and believes all the crams we tell. As soon as you’re ready the master ’ll want to see you.’
‘I am ready now.’
‘And,’ continued the servant, ‘I’ll bet you a shilling I know what he’ll say to y’.’
‘I never bet. Shillings are too hardly earned to be cast away.’
‘I didn’t mean naught, really. I’ll tell y’ exactly what master ’ll say. He’ll begin like the minister in church: “O come, let us worship, and fall down.” He always does with every lady who comes into service here for the first time. There is his bell. I reckon he won’t think you can be old enough, judging by your looks. I shouldn’t believe you was twenty, if you swore it till black in the face.’
Joanna was shown into the drawing-room, where Mr. Worthivale stood on the mat, with his back to the fire, moving his feet uneasily. He disliked an interview with servants, not from pride, but from consciousness that he was helpless in their hands—a defenceless fort.
‘Good day,’ he said; ‘please shut the door. Miss Worthivale is not here at present, so I must tell you what you have to do. Your name is Joanna?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And your age is twenty?’
‘So I am told, sir. I don’t remember my birth.’
‘I suppose not. Of course not. You are highly recommended to me. Mrs. Delany is the wife of Colonel Delany, of the Royal Engineers, I presume. One cannot make too sure. I turned up the name in the Directory. I understand you have suffered a domestic affliction. I see you wear a black gown. I am sorry. I hope you have not lost a very near relative—not a father or a mother?’ He spoke in a kind, sympathetic tone.
‘My father is dead, sir,’ she answered, looking down and slightly colouring.
‘Dear me—how sad! and your poor mother is alone in the world—a rough world for a fresh-bleeding heart to battle with. Have you brothers and sisters?’
Joanna answered, in a low voice, ‘None, sir.’
‘It must have been a hard matter for your poor widowed mother to make up her mind to part with you. Sad also for you to have to leave her in her bereavement and desolation. Well, you have the comfort of knowing that a Hand is extended over the widow and the fatherless. Don’t cry, child.’
Joanna was strangely agitated. The kind tone touched her, conscious of, and beginning to be ashamed of, her false position. Her cheeks darkened and her eyes clouded. She hung her head to conceal her face.
‘You must write to your mother by this evening’s post. Tell her you have arrived here quite safely, and—I think you may add you are in a house where you will be treated with consideration. Oh! I forgot—you cannot write. I beg you a thousand pardons; it had escaped me. Shall I drop your mother a line? It would comfort her. Or, if you prefer it, get your fellow-servant, Emily, to write. I will let you have paper and envelope and stamp from the office shortly.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Joanna, looking up. She had recovered herself. ‘My mother—I do not know where she is. She is not dead, but lost!’
‘Good God!—poor child!—Lord bless me!—what tragedies are played in the depths below the surface on which we swim serene! But, for the matter of that,’ he added with a sigh, ‘there are sad enough stories, cares, and breakdowns about and above us. I suppose happiness and sorrow are pretty equally distributed through all the strata of life—only differing in kind, hardly in intensity. You look very young, my child; I should not have thought you as old as Mrs. Delany affirms.’
‘I have had more experience than many who are much older.’
‘I have no doubt about that. Trouble and responsibility ripen the character prematurely. Sit down, Joanna; you must be tired with your long journey. I hope Emily has given you something to eat. The drive from the station is long and cold, over exposed moor. Lord bless me! when shall we have a junction line?’
‘Thank you kindly, sir, I am not hungry. The cook is going to give me some dinner presently.’
‘That is right. I will not detain you long. I must put you in the way of things at the outset, and then all will go smoothly afterwards. I dare say your attention was called to a wall for nearly two miles along the roadside?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very fine trees on the other side. Unfortunately, the trees are not now in leaf, so that they do not show to advantage. I always think that a park tree in winter is like a man of family without a landed estate. You know he is great, but he does not look it.’
‘I saw the trees, sir.’
‘Well, Joan. That is your name, is it not? The wall encloses the park, and the trees you saw grow in the park enclosed by that wall.’
‘Yes, sir, I understand.’
‘The park covers nearly—not quite—a thousand acres, and some of the timber is magnificent.’ After a pause, to allow of the absorption and assimilation of what he had communicated, Mr. Worthivale said slowly, ‘That park is Court Royal.’
‘Does it belong to this house, sir?’ asked Joanna, with affected simplicity.
Mr. Worthivale fell back against the mantelshelf, dropped his coat-tails, which must have touched the bars of the grate, as an odour of singed wool pervaded the room. ‘Good heavens! what are you thinking of? You must indeed be ignorant, very ignorant, to suppose that so magnificent a park could belong to this humble residence. This house is Court Royal Lodge. Not, you understand, the lodge at the park gates, but an ornate cottage situated on a patch of ground cut out from the park, where was once an overgrown, ragged, and unsightly bed of laurels. His grace was pleased to erect the lodge for my late father. It is the house of the steward. I am the steward.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the park and the land as far as you can see—that is to say, almost all, not quite all—belongs to his grace the Duke of Kingsbridge. I am the steward of his grace. Now you understand my position.’
‘Yes, sir, and I am to be housemaid to the steward of his grace the Duke of Kingsbridge?’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr. Worthivale; ‘you have grasped the situation. Bless my soul! I have burnt my tail. I thought I smelt something. How can I have done that? Now, what I want you particularly to understand, Joan, from the outset is this—the proper manner in which to address those of the ducal family who do me the honour of calling. As it happens, one or other comes here nearly every day. You, of course, have not had to do with people of title at Mrs. Delany’s?’
‘Mrs. Delany’s husband is a colonel, sir.’
‘A colonel!’ echoed Mr. Worthivale, looking offended and disgusted. ‘What is a colonel? Nothing.’
‘Then,’ continued Joanna, running over the uniforms in Mr. Lazarus’s store with a mental eye, ‘there was a field-marshal, and an admiral of the Blue, and half-a-dozen generals, and a silk cassock, red hood, and college cap.’
The steward silenced her with a wave of the hand.
‘What I particularly wish you to understand, Joan, from the beginning is how you are to comport yourself at the door should his grace, or Lord Edward, or Lord Ronald, or the marquess, or Lady Grace ring the bell. Emily and you will have alternate afternoons at home. She likes to go out every other day, and I dare say you will be glad to do the same; exercise and fresh air are good for health. When Emily is out you will answer the bell. Open that photographic album on the table, and look at the first carte-de-visite—no, cabinet-size portrait. You perceive a venerable gentleman with white hair and fine aristocratic countenance. That is the duke. He does not come here often. He cannot walk so far. If he comes, the carriage brings him. You cannot mistake him if you observe his waxlike complexion, and if you notice that the carriage stands at the gate. It is essential that you make no mistake in addressing him. I could pardon a lapse with the others, but not with him; so impress his features on your memory. When you open the door to him, mind you curtsey. Can you curtsey? The art is dying out. Ask Emily to put you in the way, and practise it till you are proficient. You must address the duke as “your grace.” He will probably say, “My child, is Mr. Worthivale at home?” Then you curtsey a second time and say, “Yes, your grace.” If I am out—which God forbid!—then say, “No, your grace.” If you are uncertain, say, “Will it please your grace to step in, and I will inquire.” You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Turn the page, and you will see two dignified gentlemen. One is Lord Ronald, the other Lord Edward. Look at them well. They are like the duke, but have not quite his presence and beauty. They are his brothers—younger brothers, of course—which accounts for their slight inferiority; of course, I mean relative—relative only to his grace. You address them each as “my lord.” “Is Mr. Worthivale at home?” “Yes, my lord,” or “No, my lord,” as the case may be. Here,
Joan, I will go into the passage and knock at the door. Then you open and curtsey, and I will represent—I am ashamed to do it—the Duke of Kingsbridge, and you will receive me according as I have instructed you. Let me see if you have taken the lesson to heart. After that I will represent Lord Ronald or Lord Edward. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you have apprehended my instructions.’
So Mr. Worthivale rehearsed with Joanna what he had taught her. He was void of all sense of humour, and unconscious of the absurdity of his conduct, and that the girl was laughing in her sleeve.
‘Turn the page again,’ said the steward. ‘You see the marquess. You address him also as “my lord.” You understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Joanna, distractedly. She was looking at the next portrait with interest. ‘Oh, sir! please, sir, who is this beautiful lady?’
‘That lady is as perfect and sweet in mind and soul as she is in feature,’ answered Mr. Worthivale. ‘That is the Lady Grace Eveleigh. And, remember, she is not Lady Grace, but the Lady Grace. A Knight’s wife is a Lady, you know. The makes all the difference in the world. Everyone who knows that lady loves her, she is so good, so kind.’
‘I am sure they do,’ said Joanna, eagerly. ‘I am certain I shall love her, too.’
The steward was pleased; he smiled and nodded. ‘You will address her as “my lady,” you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Turn the page again, and you will see a photograph of Court Royal.’
‘That house?’ inquired the girl; ‘why, it has got pillars before the door just like the Royal Hotel at Plymouth.’
Mr. Worthivale shuddered and drew back.
‘My good girl! For heaven’s sake don’t liken a ducal mansion to—to—an—an inn, however respectable and old established. It is possible that the Royal Hotel may have a portico'
‘It has two,’ said Joan, eager for the credit of the Plymouth house. ‘Has this place got two? I only see one in the picture.’
Mr. Worthivale was silenced; he coloured, and looked down on the rug, frowning. Court Royal had but one portico. Presently he said in an embarrassed tone, ‘It may be true—I do not dispute it—that the inn in question has two porticos. But there is a difference, my girl, between porticos. Some are shams, shabby, and stucco; two, even five, porticos would be insignificant beside one real portico, such as that which graces the front of Court Royal. The pillars are of granite, red granite from Exmoor. When your eyes rest on the mansion you will feel at once the temerity of drawing comparisons between it and—and—an inn. Upon my word, I think you had better go there at once—that is, after you have had something to eat and drink. By the way, do not speak of the mansion as “the house;” that is scarcely respectful, and is contrary to usage. You mention it always as “the Court.” You shall go down, Joan, to the Court after you have partaken of some refreshment. I will write a note which will serve as an excuse for sending you. When there, ask to see the housekeeper, Mrs. Probus, a most admirable woman. She will show you over the state apartments. His grace is out. He has gone for a drive. I saw the carriage pass half an hour ago, and unquestionably the Lady Grace is with him. Lord Edward is away, back at his Somersetshire living, superintending the preparations for Christmas and the charities. The marquess, I have no doubt, is out shooting, and you are not likely to come across Lord Ronald. Mrs. Probus knows what to do and where to take you. Rely upon her. Do not put off your walk too late. The days close in rapidly, and I want you to see the Court to advantage, and to be impressed by the influences of the Place and the Family.’