Sir Charles Trevenning was a man who rarely betrayed himself. He led a satisfactory life, missed nothing that he wished for, and if what he wished for happened to be something which it would be unwise for the world to know of, the world did not know. Yet he had betrayed himself to a humble innkeeper.
Such made uneasy thinking. Once before he had been caught off his guard, and what had followed? Pleasure, yes; delight, he might say if he were given to such fantastic expression; but surely such pleasure, such delight, had to be paid for. He had suffered some anguish, some misgiving, a moment of panic; but Sir Charles was not a man to pay more for a thing than that thing was worth.
When he had sat very straight, very controlled, at the table outside the Lefevres* inn, his outward appearance had given no indication of his inner turmoil which had been aroused by the little girl from the convent. When her green eyes had looked into his he had felt his calm expression cracking, as though it had been a shell. It was alarming. A moment outside a humble inn linked itself with another moment under the trees in Vauxhall Gardens; a humble child looked at him as a young woman had looked at him; and Sir Charles was aware of the weakness within him.
He, squire and landowner from Cornwall, magistrate and one of the most highly respected gentlemen of the Duchy, a man of wide financial interests in the City of London, whose friends in the country and town were of high social standing, had no right to be sitting outside an inn in a quiet French town, talking to an innkeeper. He should never have sat beneath the trees of Vauxhall. Had he wished to visit a pleasure garden, it should have been Ranelagh, to which he might have gone in his carriage with a party of friends. Looking back it seemed as though some unaccountable impulse had led him to Vauxhall, where persons of high degree did not go; where, it was said, one did not meet a creature above the station of cheesemonger. And had he not gone to Vauxhall he would never have sat outside a mean little auberge, talking to a bibulous, garrulous innkeeper.
So here he was now riding in a coach among humble people,
people who gabbled, gesticulated and sweated. He, the fastidious one, forced to that which offended his fastidiousness and yet was somehow irresistible. It was disturbing in the extreme, for it was as though he did not know himself.
He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the vulgar woman in the corner seat of the coach. Her sprigged muslin gown with the vulgar leg-of-mutton sleeves was none too clean; her bodice was laced to bring her bosom into prominence; her monstrously large hat took up too much room in the coach; and he disliked the glances she threw at him.
But he had forgotten her in a second, for his thoughts were back to this position in which, because of an evening in Vauxhall, he found himself.
He was there at Vauxhall that summer's day sixteen years before. He saw himself a younger man, proud then as now, but with no knowledge of that weakness within him. He had crossed the river to Lambeth. Why? On what mad impulse?
Vauxhall in early summer! He saw it as though he were there: the avenues of trees, the tables set under the trees, the gravel paths, the pavilions, the grottoes and lawns, the ostentatious little temples which aroused the admiration of the vulgar; the porticoes, the rotundas, the colonnades, the music; the lamps which would scintillate as soon as it was dark; the fireworks, frothed syllabub and sliced ham, scraped beer and burned champagne; and the people on holiday aping their betters.
In the twilight the girls tripped past him in their watered tabbies and bombazines which rustled like the silk of ladies. There were girls in cardinal capes and gay bonnets, swirling skirts and cosy tippets; there were young men—apprentices in flowing cravats, brilliantly waist-coated, gaudy copies of Beau Brummel and the Count D'Orsay ... in that dim light.
That was how he had first seen Millie; but she was young and sweet enough to bear the light of day.
How had he come to be there? It had begun with his periodic desire to escape from Maud and the quiet of the country to the pleasures of the town, to see old friends, to visit the incomparable Fenella's salon, to hope that their friendship might briefly burst into something more exciting, more amusing, as it had done once and could so easily do again.
Perhaps old Wenna had something to do with it. Odd to be driven from his house by one of his own servants. He had never liked Wenna and he would have dismissed her if he had had his way. But Maud —pliable in most things—would never agree to that. Old Morwenna Pengelly had been Maud's nurserymaid when Maud was a girl of five (how many times had he heard that story ?) and Wenna no more
than fourteen; Maud was Wenna's 'Miss Maud' and would be so until they died. Why did he call her old ? She was nine years older than Maud and five years older than himself. That was not old. But there was an air of age about Wenna. It was impossible to imagine that she had ever been young. At fifteen she must have been a small wizened creature, watching over her Miss Maud and never giving a thought to those things which occupied the minds of other girls of that age. He should be glad. She was a good servant. But he did not like her hostility. There was no other word for it. And ever since her dear Miss Maud had first become pregnant, Wenna's hostility had increased. Foolish woman! But a good servant. No, certainly Wenna had had no part in his leaving home at that time. He had been stifled by the atmosphere of the house. Maud, who would bear a child in three months' time, had become the most important person in it; and he, the master, had been forced to take second place. He could escape to his life outside the house, of course, to his friends for a little gambling, a few dinner parties, supervising his estates, sitting on the bench, hunting; but he had had need of a complete change. Then, there had been the christening of Bruce Holland's boy.
He had said to Maud: "My dear, I think I shall have to go to London, confound it! Business threatens to make the trip necessary."
Then she had tried to hide the pleasure his words had given her, but she could never hide anything.
She had said: "Oh, Charles, how tiresome!" And, hardly able to keep the eagerness out of her voice: "When do you leave?"
She would be thinking: I shall have my meals with Wenna. We shall be comfortable. I shall no longer have to wonder what he is going to say next and how to answer him.
He had said airily: "Oh, in a week or two." And he had watched her settle cosily into her cushions.
He went to her and kissed her lightly on the forehead; he was well pleased with her. There were no irritating wifely questions from Maud. Did it occur to her that something besides business might detain him in London? Such thoughts would not occur to Maud. She was too pure. Her dear Mamma had never taught her to consider her husband's possible lack of morals; the only cause for alarm would have been any lack of fortune.
So, with Maud absorbed in the approach of motherhood, he needed the stimulation which London could give him.
He said: "Bruce expects me to put in an appearance at the christening."
"You must, of course."
He smiled at her calmly. He thought: If the child she is carrying is a girl we'll betroth him to this boy of Bruce's. He almost wished he would be cheated of the son he hoped for; it would be so neat if