Lord Tony’s Wife Baroness Orczy (story read aloud .TXT) 📖

say, for she knew her father well: knew his faults as well as his qualities, his pride, his obstinacy, his unswerving determination and his loyalty to the King’s cause⁠—all of which must have been deeply outraged by his daughter’s high-handed action. But as she began to read, astonishment, amazement at once filled her soul: she could hardly trust her comprehension, hardly believe that what she read could indeed be reality, and not just the continuance of the happy dream wherein she was dwelling these days.

Her father⁠—gently reproachful⁠—had not one single harsh word to utter. He would not, he said, at the close of his life, after so many bitter disappointments, stand in the way of his daughter’s happiness: “You should have trusted me, my child,” he wrote: and indeed Yvonne could not believe her eyes. “I had no idea that your happiness was at stake in this marriage, or I should never have pressed the claims of my own wishes in the matter. I have only you in the world left, now that misery and exile are to be my portion! Is it likely that I would allow any personal desires to weigh against my love for you?”

Happy as she was Yvonne cried⁠—cried bitterly with remorse and shame when she read that letter. How could she have been so blind, so senseless as to misjudge her father so? Her young husband found her in tears, and had much ado to console her: he too read the letter and was deeply touched by the kind reference to himself contained therein: “My lord Anthony is a gallant gentleman,” wrote M. le duc de Kernogan, “he will make you happy, my child, and your old father will be more than satisfied. All that grieves me is that you did not trust me sooner. A clandestine marriage is not worthy of a daughter of the Kernogans.”

“I did speak most earnestly to M. le duc,” said Lord Tony reflectively, “when I begged him to allow me to pay my addresses to you. But then,” he added cheerfully, “I am such a clumsy lout when I have to talk at any length⁠—and especially clumsy when I have to plead my own cause. I suppose I put my case so badly before your father, m’dear, that he thought me three parts an idiot and would not listen to me.”

“I too begged and entreated him, dear,” she said with a smile, “but he was very determined then and vowed that I should marry M. Martin-Roget despite my tears and protestations. Dear father! I suppose he didn’t realise that I was in earnest.”

“He has certainly accepted the inevitable very gracefully,” was my lord Tony’s final comment.

II

Then they read the letter through once more, sitting close together, he with one arm round her shoulder, she nestling against his chest, her hair brushing against his lips and with the letter in her hands which she could scarcely read for the tears of joy which filled her eyes.

“I don’t feel very well today,” the letter concluded; “the dampness and the cold have got into my bones: moreover you two young love birds will not desire company just yet, but tomorrow if the weather is more genial I will drive over to Combwich in the afternoon, and perhaps you will give me supper and a bed for the night. Send me word by the courier who will forthwith return to Bath if this will be agreeable to you both.”

Could anything be more adorable, more delightful? It was just the last drop that filled Yvonne’s cup of happiness right up to the brim.

III

The next afternoon she sat at her desk in order to tell Lady Blakeney all about it. She made out a copy of her father’s letter and put that in with her own, and begged dear Lady Blakeney to see Lady Ffoulkes forthwith and tell her all that had happened. She herself was expecting her father every minute and milor Tony had gone as far as the gate to see if the barouche was in sight.

Half an hour later M. de Kernogan had arrived and his daughter lay in his arms, happy, beyond the dreams of men. He looked rather tired and wan and still complained that the cold had got into his bones: evidently he was not very well and Yvonne after the excitement of the meeting felt not a little anxious about him. As the evening wore on he became more and more silent; he hardly would eat anything and soon after eight o’clock he announced his desire to retire to bed.

“I am not ill,” he said as he kissed his daughter and bade her a fond “Good night,” “only a little wearied⁠ ⁠… with emotion no doubt. I shall be better after a night’s rest.”

He had been quite cordial with my lord Tony, though not effusive, which was only natural⁠—he was at all times a very reserved man, and⁠—unlike those of his race⁠—never demonstrative in his manner: but with his daughter he had been singularly tender, with a wistful affection which almost suggested remorse, even though it was she who, on his arrival, had knelt down before him and had begged for his blessing and his forgiveness.

IV

But the following morning he appeared to be really ill: his cheeks looked sunken, almost livid, his eyes dim and hollow. Nevertheless he would not hear of staying on another day or so.

“No, no,” he declared emphatically, “I shall be better in Bath. It is more sheltered there, here the north winds would drive me to my bed very quickly. I shall take a course of baths at once. They did me a great deal of good before, you remember, Yvonne⁠—in September, when I caught a chill⁠ ⁠… they soon put me right. That is all that ails me now.⁠ ⁠… I’ve caught a chill.”

He did his best to reassure his daughter, but she was far from satisfied: more especially as he hardly would