THE day of the garden party arrived. There was no rain; but the air was
heavy, and the sky was overcast by lowering clouds.
Some hours before the guests were expected, Isabel arrived alone at
the farm, bearing the apologies of unfortunate Miss Pink, still kept a
prisoner in her bed-chamber by the asthma. In the confusion produced at
the cottage by the preparations for entertaining the company, the one
room in which Hardyman could receive Isabel with the certainty of not
being interrupted was the smoking-room. To this haven of refuge he led
her--still reserved and silent, still not restored to her customary
spirits. “If any visitors come before the time,” Hardyman said to his
servant, “tell them I am engaged at the stables. I must have an hour’s
quiet talk with you,” he continued, turning to Isabel, “or I shall be in
too bad a temper to receive my guests with common politeness. The worry
of giving this party is not to be told in words. I almost wish I had
been content with presenting you to my mother, and had let the rest of
my acquaintances go to the devil.”
A quiet half hour passed; and the first visitor, a stranger to the
servants, appeared at the cottage-gate. He was a middle-aged man, and
he had no wish to disturb Mr. Hardyman. “I will wait in the grounds,” he
said, “and trouble nobody.” The middle-aged man, who expressed himself
in these modest terms, was Robert Moody.
Five minutes later, a carriage drove up to the gate. An elderly lady got
out of it, followed by a fat white Scotch terrier, who growled at every
stranger within his reach. It is needless to introduce Lady Lydiard and
Tommie.
Informed that Mr. Hardyman was at the stables, Lady Lydiard gave the
servant her card. “Take that to your master, and say I won’t detain
him five minutes.” With these words, her Ladyship sauntered into the
grounds. She looked about her with observant eyes; not only noticing
the tent which had been set up on the grass to accommodate the expected
guests, but entering it, and looking at the waiters who were engaged
in placing the luncheon on the table. Returning to the outer world, she
next remarked that Mr. Hardyman’s lawn was in very bad order. Barren
sun-dried patches, and little holes and crevices opened here and
there by the action of the summer heat, announced that the lawn, like
everything else at the farm, had been neglected, in the exclusive
attention paid to the claims of the horses. Reaching a shrubbery which
bounded one side of the grounds next, her Ladyship became aware of a man
slowly approaching her, to all appearance absorbed in thought. The
man drew a little nearer. She lifted her glasses to her eyes and
recognized--Moody.
No embarrassment was produced on either side by this unexpected meeting.
Lady Lydiard had, not long since, sent to ask her former steward to
visit her; regretting, in her warm-hearted way, the terms on which they
had separated, and wishing to atone for the harsh language that had
escaped her at their parting interview. In the friendly talk which
followed the reconciliation, Lady Lydiard not only heard the news
of Moody’s pecuniary inheritance--but, noticing the change in his
appearance for the worse, contrived to extract from him the confession
of his ill-starred passion for Isabel. To discover him now, after all
that he had acknowledged, walking about the grounds at Hardyman’s farm,
took her Ladyship completely by surprise. “Good Heavens!” she exclaimed,
in her loudest tones, “what are you doing here?”
“You mentioned Mr. Hardyman’s garden party, my Lady, when I had the
honor of waiting on you,” Moody answered. “Thinking over it afterward,
it seemed the fittest occasion I could find for making a little wedding
present to Miss Isabel. Is there any harm in my asking Mr. Hardyman to
let me put the present on her plate, so that she may see it when she
sits down to luncheon? If your Ladyship thinks so, I will go away
directly, and send the gift by post.”
Lady Lydiard looked at him attentively. “You don’t despise the girl,”
she asked, “for selling herself for rank and money? I do--I can tell
you!”
Moody’s worn white face flushed a little. “No, my Lady,” he answered,
“I can’t hear you say that! Isabel would not have engaged herself to Mr.
Hardyman unless she had been fond of him--as fond, I dare say, as I once
hoped she might be of me. It’s a hard thing to confess that; but I do
confess it, in justice to her--God bless her!”
The generosity that spoke in those simple words touched the finest
sympathies in Lady Lydiard’s nature. “Give me your hand,” she said, with
her own generous spirit kindling in her eyes. “You have a great heart,
Moody. Isabel Miller is a fool for not marrying _you_--and one day she
will know it!”
Before a word more could pass between them, Hardyman’s voice was audible
on the other side of the shrubbery, calling irritably to his servant to
find Lady Lydiard.
Moody retired to the further end of the walk, while Lady Lydiard
advanced in the opposite direction, so as to meet Hardyman at the
entrance to the shrubbery. He bowed stiffly, and begged to know why her
Ladyship had honored him with a visit.
Lady Lydiard replied without noticing the coldness of her reception.
“I have not been very well, Mr. Hardyman, or you would have seen me
before this. My only object in presenting myself here is to make my
excuses personally for having written of you in terms which expressed
a doubt of your honor. I have done you an injustice, and I beg you to
forgive me.”
Hardyman acknowledged this frank apology as unreservedly as it had been
offered to him. “Say no more, Lady Lydiard. And let me hope, now you are
here, that you will honor my little party with your presence.”
Lady Lydiard gravely stated her reasons for not accepting the
invitation.
“I disapprove so strongly of unequal marriages,” she said, walking
on slowly towards the cottage, “that I cannot, in common consistency,
become one of your guests. I shall always feel interested in Isabel
Miller’s welfare; and I can honestly say I shall be glad if your married
life proves that my old-fashioned prejudices are without justification
in your case. Accept my thanks for your invitation; and let me hope that
my plain speaking has not offended you.”
She bowed, and looked about her for Tommie before she advanced to the
carriage waiting for her at the gate. In the surprise of seeing
Moody she had forgotten to look back for the dog when she entered
the shrubbery. She now called to him, and blew the whistle at her
watch-chain. Not a sign of Tommie was to be seen. Hardyman instantly
directed the servants to search in the cottage and out of the cottage
for the dog. The order was obeyed with all needful activity and
intelligence, and entirely without success. For the time being at any
rate, Tommie was lost.
Hardyman promised to have the dog looked for in every part of the farm,
and to send him back in the care of one of his own men. With these
polite assurances Lady Lydiard was obliged to be satisfied. She drove
away in a very despondent frame of mind. “First Isabel, and now Tommie,”
thought her Ladyship. “I am losing the only companions who made life
tolerable to me.”
Returning from the garden gate, after taking leave of his visitor,
Hardyman received from his servant a handful of letters which had just
arrived for him. Walking slowly over the lawn as he opened them, he
found nothing but excuses for the absence of guests who had already
accepted their invitations. He had just thrust the letters into his
pocket, when he heard footsteps behind him, and, looking round, found
himself confronted by Moody.
“Hullo! have you come to lunch?” Hardyman asked, roughly.
“I have come here, sir, with a little gift for Miss Isabel, in honor of
her marriage,” Moody answered quietly, “and I ask your permission to
put it on the table, so that she may see it when your guests sit down to
luncheon.”
He opened a jeweler’s case as he spoke, containing a plain gold bracelet
with an inscription engraved on the inner side: “To Miss Isabel Miller,
with the sincere good wishes of Robert Moody.”
Plain as it was, the design of the bracelet was unusually beautiful.
Hardyman had noticed Moody’s agitation on the day when he had met Isabel
near her aunt’s house, and had drawn his own conclusions from it. His
face darkened with a momentary jealousy as he looked at the bracelet.
“All right, old fellow!” he said, with contemptuous familiarity. “Don’t
be modest. Wait and give it to her with your own hand.”
“No, sir,” said Moody “I would rather leave it, if you please, to speak
for itself.”
Hardyman understood the delicacy of feeling which dictated those words,
and, without well knowing why, resented it. He was on the point of
speaking, under the influence of this unworthy motive, when Isabel’s
voice reached his ears, calling to him from the cottage.
Moody’s face contracted with a sudden expression of pain as he, too,
recognized the voice. “Don’t let me detain you, sir,” he said, sadly.
“Good-morning!”
Hardyman left him without ceremony. Moody, slowly following, entered the
tent. All the preparations for the luncheon had been completed; nobody
was there. The places to be occupied by the guests were indicated
by cards bearing their names. Moody found Isabel’s card, and put his
bracelet inside the folded napkin on her plate. For a while he stood
with his hand on the table, thinking. The temptation to communicate once
more with Isabel before he lost her forever, was fast getting the better
of his powers of resistance.
“If I could persuade her to write a word to say she liked her bracelet,”
he thought, “it would be a comfort when I go back to my solitary life.”
He tore a leaf out of his pocket book and wrote on it, “One line to say
you accept my gift and my good wishes. Put it under the cushion of your
chair, and I shall find it when the company have left the tent.” He
slipped the paper into the case which held the bracelet, and instead of
leaving the farm as he had intended, turned back to the shelter of the
shrubbery.