Everilda Stella, poor Lucy’s unconscious rival, had married out of
the schoolroom. Pretty she was not, but with much piquancy of face
and manner, and a talent for private theatricals. These advantages,
gilded, perhaps, by her reputation as presumptive heiress, attracted,
to her a suitor, to whose twenty years’ seniority she felt no
objection. Mr. Hartley wooed and won her in the brief space of an
Easter holiday; and bore her, nothing loth,—to London, to enjoy the
gaieties of the season. Somewhat to the bridegroom’s annoyance, Mr.
Durham accompanied the newly-married couple to town, and shared their
pretty house at Kensington.
Alan Hartley, a favourite nephew of Dr. Tyke, had, as we know, been
very intimate at his house in old days. Now he was proud to present
his little wife of sixteen to his uncle and aunt, though somewhat
mortified at having also to introduce his father-in-law, whose
pompous manners, and habit of dragging titled personages into his
discourse, put him to the blush. Alan had dropped Everilda, and
called his wife simply Stella; her father dubbed her Pug; Everilda
she was named, in accordance with the taste of her peerage-studious
mother. This lady was accustomed to describe herself as of a
north-country family—a Leigh of the Leazes; which conveyed an
old-manorial notion to persons unacquainted with Newcastle-on-Tyne.
But this by the way: Mrs. Durham had died before the opening of our
tale.
At their first visit they were shown into the drawing-room by a
smiling maid-servant, and requested to wait, as Dr. and Mrs. Tyke
were expected home every moment. Stella looked very winning in her
smart hat and feather and jaunty jacket, and Alan would have
abandoned himself to all the genial glow of a bridegroom, but for Mr.
Durham’s behaviour. That gentle-man began by placing his hat on the
floor between his feet, and flicking his boots with a crimson silk
pocket-handkerchief. This done, he commenced a survey of the
apartment, accompanied by an apt running comment,—‘Hem, no
pictures—cheap engravings; a four-and-sixpenny Brussels carpet; a
smallish mirror, wants regilding. Pug, my pet, that’s a neat
antimacassar: see if you can’t carry off the stitch in your eye. A
piano—a harp; fiddlestick!’
When Dr. and Mrs. Tyke entered, they found the Hartleys looking
uncomfortable, and Mr. Durham red and pompous after his wont; also,
in opening the door, they caught the sound of ‘fiddlestick!’ All
these symptoms, with the tact of kindness, they ignored. The bride
was kissed, the father-in-law taken for granted, and Alan welcomed as
if no one in the room had looked guilty.
‘Come to lunch and take a hunch,’ said the Doctor, offering his arm
to Stella. ‘Mother Bunch is rhyme, but not reason; you shall munch
and I will scrunch—that’s both. “Ah! you may well look surprised,” as
the foreign ambassador admitted when the ancient Britons noticed that
he had no tail. But you won’t mind when you know us better; I’m no
worse than a barrel-organ.’
Yet with all Dr. Tyke’s endeavour to be funny, and this time it cost
him an effort, and with all his wife’s facile commonplaces, two of
the guests seemed ill at ease. Alan felt, as it were with every
nerve, the impression his father-in-law must produce, while Stella,
less sensitive for herself, was out of countenance for her husband’s
sake. Mr. Durham, indeed, was pompous and unabashed as ever; but
whilst he answered commonplace remarks by remarks no less
commonplace, he appeared to be, as in fact he was, occupied in
scrutinizing, and mentally valuing, the plate and china.
‘Charming weather,’ said Mrs. Tyke, with an air of intelligent
originality.
‘Yes, ma’am; fine weather, indeed; billing and cooing weather; ha!
Ha!’ with a glance across the table. ‘Now I dare say your young
ladies know what to do in this weather.’
‘We have no children,’ and Mrs. Tyke whispered, lest her husband
should hear. Then, after a pause, ‘I dare say Orpingham Place was
just coming into beauty when you left.’
Mr. Durham thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat-pockets, and leaned
back for conversation. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to that,—I
don’t indeed; I don’t know which the season is when Orpingham Place
is not in beauty. Its conservatories were quite a local lion last
winter—quite a local lion, as my friend the Duke remarked to me; and
he said he must bring the Duchess over to see them, and he did bring
her Grace over; and I gave them a luncheon in the largest
conservatory, such as I don’t suppose they sit down to every day. For
the nobility have blood, if you please, and the literary beggars are
welcome to all the brains they’ve got’ (the Doctor smiled, Alan
winced visibly); ‘but you’ll find it’s us city men who’ve got
backbone, and backbone’s the best to wear, as I observed to the Duke
that very day when I gave him such a glass of port as he hasn’t got
in his cellar. I said it to him, just as I say it to you, ma’am, and
he didn’t contradict me; in fact, you know, he couldn’t.’
After this it might have been difficult to start conversation afresh,
when, happily, Jane entered, late for luncheon, and with an apology
for her sister, who was detained elsewhere. She went through the
necessary introductions, and took her seat between Dr. Tyke and Mr.
Durham, thus commanding an advantageous view of the bride, whom she
mentally set down as nothing particular in any way.
Alan had never met Jane before. He asked her after Miss Charlmont and
Lucy, after Lucy especially, who was ‘a very charming old friend’ of
his, as he explained to Stella. For some minutes Mr. Durham sat
silent, much impressed by Jane’s beauty and grace; this gave people
breathing-time for the recovery of ease and good humour; and it was
not till Dr. Tyke had uttered three successive jokes, and every one,
except Mr. Durham, had laughed at them, that the master of Orpingham
Place could think of any remark worthy of his attractive neighbour;
and then, with much originality, he too observed,—‘Charming weather,
Miss Jane.’
And Jane answered with a smile; for was not this the widower of
Orpingham Place?
That Mr. Durham’s conversation on subsequent occasions gained in
range of subject, is clear from Jane’s quotations in the last
chapter. And that Mr. Durham was alive to Jane’s fascinations
appeared pretty evident, as he not only called frequently at
Appletrees House, but made up parties, to which Dr. and Mrs. Tyke,
and the Miss Charlmonts, were invariably asked.