During the morning of the day on which Lady Handcock is expected
to arrive, I feel strangely nervous and unsettled. I don't seem
to care so much for any one's good opinion as for hers. If
Marmaduke's sister refuses to like me, I shall take it very
hardly indeed, and I do not dare to flatter myself that it may be
otherwise. Probably she will be cold and haughty and indifferent,
like the generality of grand dames, or, worse still, supercilious
and filled with a well-bred mockery only half concealed, like
Lady Blanche Going.
As she has written to say they will not arrive until five
o'clock, I put on my outdoor things after luncheon and wander
forth alone in search of good spirits and a frame of mind so
altogether radiant as shall help me to conquer fate towards
evening. As at four o'clock, however, I retrace my steps, I am by
no means certain I have found anything beyond a brilliant color.
I cross the threshold and move towards the staircase with the
laudable intention of robing myself for conquest be fore their
coming, when to my consternation I am met by Tynon, the butler,
with the pleasing intelligence that "Sir James and Lady Handcock
and Miss Beatoun" have already arrived.
Have entered my doors with no hostess to receive them or bid them
welcome! What _will_ they think? How awkward it has proved, my
going for that stupid walk!
I smother a groan, fling my hat at Tynon, and, just as I am, with
my hair slightly disarranged, enter the drawing room.
At the upper end stands Marmaduke, laughing and talking gayly to
a fair-haired, prettily-dressed woman, who in a lower class of
existence, might be termed "buxom." To say she is inclining
towards _embonpoint_ will, however, sound less shocking to ears
polite. I have heard from my husband that she is about thirty
years of age, but in the quick glance I take at her I decide she
might be any age under that, she is so white and soft and gay.
"Oh! here she is," says 'Duke, gladly, as I enter.
"I am so sorry!" I murmur, with a rising color, coming quickly
forward; "but we did not expect you until five o'clock."
As I advance, so does she, and when we meet she lays two small
plump, jewelled hands upon my shoulders.
"It was all my fault," she says, smiling. "When you know me
better you will understand that I cannot _help_ being in a hurry.
However, you must forgive me this time, as my appearing at this
hour is in itself a flattery, proving how impatient I was to see
you." Then, regarding me attentively. "Why, what a child!" she
cries; "what a baby! and what delicious eyes! Really, Marmaduke,
I hardly know whether most to congratulate or--pity you."
She speaks with a curiously pretty accent, putting an emphasis on
every third or fourth word that fascinates and pleases the
listener.
"_Pity!_" return I, amazedly, making an unsuccessful effort to
elude her firm grasp, while the indignant color flames into my
cheeks. "You speak as if--_why_ should you _pity_ him?"
"Because, cannot you fancy what a life you are going to lead
him," says her ladyship, with a little arch laugh that wrinkles
up her Grecian no. "Child I too have eyes and I can see mischief
written in every line of your--_ugly_ little face."
I try to feel angry, but cannot. It is in her power to make every
word she utters an undeveloped compliment. I succumb at once and
forever, and give myself up to her merry true-hearted influence.
Putting my frowns in my pocket, I laugh.
"If you keep on saying these things before 'Duke," I say, "he
will find me out, and perhaps in time repent his bargain."
Here I make a little _moue_ at my husband, who is standing rather
behind his sister, which he returns with interest "How do you
know I have not found you out long ago? It is my belief I married
you for my sins. Harriet, I leave her now in your hands; reform
her--if you can."
"Go and look after James," says Lady Handcock "He always gets
into mischief when left by himself. I want to make friends with
Phyllis."
By and by Miss Beatoun comes in, and I get through another
introduction.
She is hardly as tall as I am, and wonderfully pretty. No need to
disbelieve the report that last season all men raved of her. Her
eyes are large and dark and soft, her hair a very, very light
brown, though hardly golden, and guiltless of dye. A tiny black
mole, somewhat like a Queen Anne's patch, grows close to her left
ear.
As I look at her, I decide hastily she is _more_ than pretty--she
is attractive. Her whole face is full of light; the very corners
of her mouth express unuttered laughter; it is altogether the
most _riante_, kissable, lovable face conceivable. Her bands and
feet are fairy-like in their proportions.
Nevertheless, her eyes, though unusually soft, betray the
coquette; they cannot entirely conceal the mischievous longing
for mastery that lurks in their velvet depths.
"Is she not young, Bebe?" asks Lady Handcock, indicating me.
"_Very_. Much younger even than I dared to hope. Of course"--to
me--"we all heard you were _quite_ a girl; yet that did not
reassure me, as it can be said of most brides, and as a rule they
are a disagreeable lot. But you have forgotten to give yourself
airs, and that is _so_ novel and delightful--so many young women
_will_ go in for that sort of thing. I feel," says Miss Beatoun,
gayly, "I am going to have a delicious autumn, and be very
happy."
"I hope so," I answer, earnestly. "Do you know, Lady Handcock, I
quite dreaded your coming?--it kept me awake several nights,
thinking perhaps you would be cold and difficult, and would not
like me; and now I am _so_ relieved--you cannot fancy what a
weight is off my mind."
I say this with such evident feeling that they both laugh
heartily, and Bebe gives it as her opinion that I am a "regular
darling."
"But you must not call me Lady Handcock," corrects my
sister-in-law. "My name is Harriet--or Harry, for the most part.
I do not want to be made an old woman just yet, though Bebe
_will_ tell every one I am her aunt, instead of saying James is
her uncle."
"It is the only hold I have over her you see," exclaims Bebe,
"and I keep it as a threat. But for knowing I have it in my power
to say that, she would be under no control. And with mamma so
given to itinerant habits, and Harry being my natural _chaperon_
I have to protect myself as best I may."
---
By dinner hour our party is still further enlarged by Dora, Mark
Gore, and Sir George Ashurst, a very fair young man, with an
aquiline nose, plump face, and a long white moustache. He at once
impresses me with the belief that he is thoroughly good-natured,
and altogether incapable of ill temper of any kind. Perhaps,
indeed, if he were to smile a little less frequently, and show
some symptoms of having an opinion of his own, it would be an
improvement. But what will you? One cannot have everything. And
he is chatty and agreeable, and I manage to spend my evenings
very comfortably in his society.
The next day Captain Jenkins and Mr. Powell, from the Barracks at
Chillington, put in an appearance; and a very youthful gentleman,
with a calm and cherubic countenance, arrives from London. This
latter is in the Hussars, and is full of a modest
self-appreciation very much to be admired.
"Well, Chips, so you have come, in spite of all your
engagements," says Marmaduke, slapping this fair-haired warrior
affectionately upon the shoulder. (His correct name is John
Chippinghall Thornton; but his friends and brother officers
having elected to call him "Chip," he usually goes by that
appellation. Though _why_ I have never been able to fathom, as it
would be a too palpable flattery to regard this very erratic
young man as a "chip of the old block," his father being a
peculiarly mild and inoffensive clergyman, residing in a northern
village).
"What did Lady Emily say to your defection, and Maudie Green, and
Carrie, and all the rest of your friends?"
"Oh, I say, now," says Master Chips, with an ingenuous blush, "it
isn't fair to show me up in this light--is it?--and before Mrs.
Carrington, too. She will have no opinion of me if she listens to
all _you_ say."
"I am only anxious to hear how you tore yourself away from their
fascinations."
"Yes, do tell us, Mr. Thornton," says I. "We are so afraid that
you have sacrificed yourself to oblige us."
"Don't you believe a word Marmaduke says, Mrs. Carrington: he is
always representing me falsely. I shall be unhappy forever if you
won't understand how proud and charmed I was to receive your
invitation. Just to show you how he exaggerates, the Carry and
Maud he spoke of are my cousins, and that's the same as sisters,
you know."
"Only far more dangerous," I return, laughing.
"Well, at all events, they have every one gone off to Germany or
country-houses, so they must do without me. I couldn't go
trotting after 'em everywhere, you know: do enough of that in the
spring to last the year. And, besides, I don't much care for any
of that lot now."
"No? Tired of them already? What a desperate Don Juan! Really,
Chips, I shudder to think where you will end. And who is the idol
of the present hour?--something more exquisite still?"
"Not to be named in the same day," says Mr. Thornton,
confidingly. "Fact is, she is a sort of connection of your own.
Met her last season in town, you know,--- and er"--an eloquent
sigh--"I mean Miss Beatoun."
Marmaduke bursts out laughing, and so do I.
"Then, you are all right," says 'Duke. "With your usual luck you
have fallen upon your feet. At this instant the same roof covers
you and your _inamorata_."
"No!" cries Chips, eagerly. "You don't mean it? Of course you are
only joking. You're not in earnest, now Marmaduke--are you?"
"Seeing is believing," returns Duke. "But if you don't go and
dress yourself this very moment you will get no dinner, and lose
a good chance of exercising your fascinations upon Miss Beatoun."
Later on he takes her in to dinner and is supremely happy; while
Messieurs Jenkins and Powell, who have reached their thirty-third
year, look on aghast at the young one's "cheek." They are
estimable men, and useful in their own way, but refuse to shine
in conversation. I _think_ they like each other; I am quite
_sure_ they like Marmaduke, who draws them out in a wonderful
manner, and makes them marvel at their own unwonted brilliancy;
while Harriet aids and abets him by her gayety.
At my right hand sits Sir James, a tall, distinguished-looking
man, with hair of iron-gray and deep-set eyes. He is grave and
remarkably silent--such an utter contrast to his laughter-loving
wife, of whom he never appears to take the smallest notice. To me
it is a matter of amazement how he can so systematically ignore
her, as he seldom addresses to her a word or lets his eyes rest
upon her for any length of time.
But for Marmaduke's assertion that they adore each other I would
be inclined to think them at daggers drawn, or at least
indifferent; and it is only now and then when she speaks to him,
and I see his eyes light up and smile and soften, that I can
accept the gentler idea.
Not to his wife alone, however, is he reserved; all the rest of
the world he treats in a similar manner, and I come to the
conclusion he abhors talking, and is a man with no settled taste
or pursuits. Hearing, indeed, that his one passion is hunting, I
broach the subject cautiously, and, feeling certain of making a
score, express myself desirous of being informed as to the
express nature of the "bull-finch."
"Explanations always fall short," is his reply. "Some day when we
are out I will _show_ you one. That will be best."
So my ignorance remains unenlightened, and as he calmly returns
to his dinner, I do the same, and abandon all hopes of hearing
him converse.
Dora is doing the amiable to Sir George Ashurst. Anything so
simple or innocent as Dora in her white dress and coral ribbons
could hardly be conceived. I am admiring her myself with all my
heart, and wondering how it is she does it; and I fancy Sir Mark
Gore is doing the same. Once, as she raises the childish
questioning blue eyes to her companion's face, and murmurs some
pretty speech in her soft treble, I see Sir Mark smile openly. It
is only a momentary merriment, however, as directly afterwards he
turns to me, suave and charming as ever.
"How becoming white is to your sister!" he says. "It suits her
expression so wonderfully. I don't know how it is, but the word
_ingenue_ always comes to me when I look at her."
"She is very pretty," I return, coldly. I have not yet quite
decided on the nature of that smile.
"You do her an injustice. Surely she is more than 'pretty'--a
word that means so little in these degenerate days. If I were an
artist I should like to paint her as 'Moonlight,' with a bunch of
lilies in her hands, and just that dress she is now
wearing--_without_ the ribbons--and a little stream running at
her feet. I have seldom seen so sweet an expression. One could
hardly fancy an unkind word coming from those lips, or a hidden
motive in her heart."
I think of our "Moonlight's" designs upon Marmaduke and the man
who is now so loud in her praise. I think of the many and
energetic _fracas_ between her and Billy, and am silent. I don't
know why, but I am positive Sir Mark is amused. I color and look
up.
"What ages ago it seems since last we met!" says he, promptly.
"Ages? No, months. It was last June we met, I think--and here."
"Oh, that was only the barest glimpse; one could hardly call it a
meeting. I was referring to my visit to the Leslies two years
ago. You remember that little scene in the High street, at
Carston?"
I laughed merrily.
"'I do indeed. But for you the _finale_ would have been _too_
ignominious. I shall always owe you a debt of gratitude for your
timely appearance. The saddle turned, I recollect, exactly
opposite the Bank, and I had a horrid vision of two or three
young men gazing at me in eager expectation from some of the
windows."
"Yes; and then we met again, and--- Shall I peel one of these for
you?"
"Please."
"And I flattered myself you treated me with some degree of
graciousness; flattered myself so far that I presumed to send you
a little volume of poems I had heard you wish for and which--you
returned. That was rather cruel, was it not?"
"I have always _felt_ how rude you must have thought me on that
occasion." I reply, blushing hotly. "I did so long to tell you
all about it, but could not. It was not my fault, however; I
confess I would have kept it if possible: it was papa. He said
you should not have sent it, and insisted on its being returned."
"Well, perhaps he was right. Yet it was a very harmless and
innocent little volume, after all, containing only the mildest
sentiments. (Is that a good one?)"
"(Very good, thank you). It was Tennyson's 'Idyls'--I remember
perfectly; and it was filled with the prettiest illustrations.
Oh, I was so sorry to part with that neat little book! Do you
know I was silly enough to cry the day I posted it back to you?"
Sir Mark regards me earnestly, almost curiously. I am laughing at
my own past folly, but he does not even smile in sympathy.
"I am sorry any act of mine should have cost you a tear," he
says, slowly, "But why did you not write a line to explain all
this to me when sending it?"
"_Fancy_ the iniquity of such a thing! the very suggestion would
have brought down untold wrath upon my poor head. To ask
permission to write a letter to a gentleman! Oh, horror!"
"And you would not--but, no, of course you would not," says Sir
Mark, rather unintelligibly.
And then I glance at Lady Handcock, and she glances at me. Sir
Mark rises to open the door, and I smile and nod gayly at him as
I cross the threshold and pass into the lighted hall.
---
We are all beginning to know each other well, and to be mutually
pleased with each other, when, towards the close of the week,
Lady Blanche Going joins our party. She is looking considerably
handsomer than when I last saw her in town, and is apparently in
good humor with herself and all the rest of the world. How long
this comfortable state of affairs may last, however, remains a
mystery. She brings with her a horse, a pet-poodle, and a _very_
French maid, who makes herself extremely troublesome, and causes
much dissension in the servants' hall.
Sir Mark Gore and her ladyship are evidently old friends, and
express a well-bred amount of pleasure on again meeting. Perhaps
her ladyship's expressions are by a shade the warmest.
"I had no idea I should meet you here," she winds up, sweetly,
when the subject of her satisfaction is exhausted. "Mrs.
Carrington, when alluding to her other guests, never mentioned
your name."
"No? Mrs. Carrington, how unkind of you to dismiss me so
completely from your thoughts! 'Never to mention my name!' It is
horrible to picture oneself so totally forgotten."
"You could not surely hope to be _always_ in my thoughts?" I
answer, lightly.
Her ladyship flashes a sharp glance at us from her long dark
eyes.
"I might not _expect_ it, certainly; but I am not to be blamed if
I cannot help hoping for anything so desirable."
"Vain hope!" return I saucily, "and a foolish one besides. Have
you never heard that 'familiarity breeds contempt?' and that 'too
much of anything is good for nothing?' Were I to keep you
perpetually in my mind I might perhaps end by hating you."
"What an appalling idea!" murmurs Lady Blanche, softly, speaking
in that peculiar tone of half-suppressed irony I so greatly
detest. "Should anything so dreadful ever occur I doubt if Sir
Mark would recover it."
"I don't suppose I should," replies Sir Mark, rather bluntly, as
it seems to me, without turning his head in her direction.
There is a moment's rather awkward pause, and then her ladyship
laughs lightly, and, crossing the room, sits down by Bebe
Beatoun.
Her laugh is an unpleasant one, and jars upon me painfully. Her
very manner of rising and leaving me alone with Sir Mark has
something in it so full of insolent meaning that for the instant
I hate her. She makes me feel I have said something
foolish--something better left unsaid, though thoroughly unmeant.
I color, bite my lip, and, without another word to my companion,
who is looking black as night, I go out through the open window.
So for the second time the little thorn enters into my heart and
pricks me gently. A seed is sown that bears, me bitter fruit.