The day before the wedding Lucy announced that she still felt too
much bruised and shaken “to make one of the party,” either at church
or at breakfast. Neither sister contradicted her: Catherine, because
she thought the excuse valid; Jane, because Lucy, not having yet lost
the traces of her accident, must have made but a sorry bridesmaid:
and, as Jane truly observed, there were enough without her, for her
defection still left a bevy of eight bridesmaids in capital working
order.
Brompton-on-Sea possessed only one hotel of any pretensions,—‘The
Duke’s Head,’ so designated in memory of that solitary Royal Duke who
had once made brief sojourn beneath its roof. He found it a simple
inn, bearing the name and sign of ‘The Three Mermaids;’ the mermaids
appearing in paint as young persons, with yellow hair and combs, and
faces of a type which failed to account for their uninterrupted
self-ogling in hand-mirrors; tails were shadowily indicated beneath
waves of deepest blue. After the august visit this signboard was
superseded by one representing the Duke as a gentleman of inane
aspect, pointing towards nothing discoverable; and this work of art,
in its turn, gave place to a simple inscription, ‘The Duke’s Head
Hotel.’
Call it by what name you would, it was as snug a house of
entertainment as rational man or reasonable beast need desire, with
odd little rooms opening out of larger rooms and off staircases; the
only trace now visible of the Royal Duke’s sojourn (beyond the bare
inscription of his title) being Royal Sentries in coloured pasteboard
effigy, the size of life, posted on certain landings and at certain
entrances. All the windowsills bore green boxes of flowering plants,
whence a sweet smell, mostly of mignonette, made its way within
doors. The best apartments looked into a square courtyard, turfed
along three sides, and frequented by pigeons; and the pigeon-house,
standing in a turfy corner, was topped by a bright silvered ball.
The landlord of the ‘Duke’s Head,’ a thin, tallowy-complexioned man,
with a manner which might also be described as unpleasantly oily or
tallowy, was in a bustle that same day, and all his household was
bustling around him: for not merely had the ‘Duke’s Head’ undertaken
to furnish the Durham-Charlmont wedding-breakfast with richness and
elegance, but the bridegroom elect, whom report endowed with a
pocketful of plums, the great Mr. Durham himself, with sundry
fashionable friends, was coming down to Brompton-on-Sea by the 5.30
train, and would put up for one night at the ‘Duke’s Head.’ The
waiters donned their whitest neckcloths, the waitresses their pinkest
caps; the landlady, in crimson gown and gold chain, loomed like a
local Mayor; the landlord shone, as it were, snuffed and trimmed:
never, since the era of that actual Royal Duke, had the ‘Duke’s Head’
smiled such a welcome.
Mr. Durham, stepping out of the carriage on to the railway platform,
and followed by Alan Hartley, Stella, and Arthur Tresham, indulged
hopes that Jane might be there to meet him, and was disappointed. Not
that the matter had undergone no discussion. Miss Charlmont, that
unavoidable drive home from the picnic with a young Viscount and a
tutor for vis-à-vis still rankling in her mind, had said, ‘My dear,
there would be no impropriety in our meeting George at the Station,
and he would certainly be gratified.’ But Jane had answered, ‘Dear
me, sister! George will keep, and I’ve not a moment to spare; only
don’t stay at home for me.’
So no one met Mr. Durham. But when he presented himself at the
private house on the Esplanade, Jane showed herself all smiling
welcome, and made him quite happy by her pretty ways. True, she
insisted on his not spending the evening with her; but she hinted so
tenderly at such restrictions vanishing on the morrow, and so
modestly at remarks people might make if he did stay, that he was
compelled to yield the point and depart in great admiration of her
reserve, though he could not help recollecting that his first wooing
had progressed and prospered without any such amazing proprieties.
But then the mother of Everilda Stella had seen the light in a
second-floor back room at Gateshead, and had married out of a circle
where polite forms were not in the ascendant; whereas Jane Charlmont
looked like a Duchess, or an Angel, or Queen Venus herself, and was
altogether a different person. So Mr. Durham, discomfited, but
acquiescent, retreated to the ‘Duke’s Head,’ and there consoled
himself with more turtle-soup and crusty old port than Dr. Tyke would
have sanctioned. Unfortunately Dr. and Mrs. Tyke were not coming down
till the latest train that night from London, so Mr. Durham gorged
unrebuked. He had seen Lucy, and taken rather a fancy to her, in
spite of her blemished face, and had pressed her to visit Orpingham
Place as soon as ever he and Jane should have returned from the
Continent. He preferred Lucy to Catherine, with whom he never felt
quite at ease; she was so decided and self-possessed, and so much
better bred than himself. Not that Backbone Durham admitted this last
point of superiority; he did not acknowledge, but he winced under it.
Lucy on her side had found him better than his photograph; and that
was something.
After tea she was lying alone on the drawing-room sofa in the
pleasant summer twilight; alone, because her sisters were busy over
Jane’s matters upstairs; alone with her own thoughts. She was
thinking of very old days, and of days not so old and much more full
of interest. She tried to think of Jane and her prospects; but
against her will Alan Hartley’s image intruded itself on her reverie,
and she could not banish it. She knew from Mr. Durham that he had
come down for the wedding; she foresaw that they must meet, and
shrank from the ordeal, even whilst she wondered how he would behave
and how, she herself should behave. Alone, and in the half darkness,
she burned with shamefaced dread of her own possible weakness, and
mortified self-love wrung tears from her eyes as she inwardly prayed
for help.
The door opened, the maid announced Mr. and Mrs. Hartley.
Lucy, startled, would have risen to receive them, but Stella was too
quick for her, and seizing both her hands, pressed her gently
backwards on the sofa. ‘Dear Miss Charlmont, you must not make a
stranger of me, and my husband is an old friend. Mayn’t I call you
Lucy?’
So this was Alan’s wife, this little, winning woman, still almost a
child; this winning woman, who had won the only man Lucy ever cared
for. It cost Lucy an effort to answer, and to make her welcome by her
name of Stella.
Then Alan came forward and shook hands, looking cordial and handsome,
with that kind tone of voice and tenderness of manner which had
deceived poor Lucy once, but must never deceive her again. He began
talking of their pleasant acquaintanceship in days of yore, of
amusements they had shared, of things done together, and things
spoken and not forgotten; it required the proof positive of Stella
seated there smiling in her hat and scarlet feather, and with the
wedding-ring on her small hand, to show even now that Alan only meant
friendliness, when he might seem to mean so much more.
Lucy revolted under the fascination of his manner; feeling angry with
herself that he still could wield power over her fancy, and angry a
little with him for having made himself so much to her and no more.
She insisted on leaving the sofa, rang the bell for a second edition
of tea, and sent up the visitors’ names to her sisters. When they
came down she turned as much shoulder as good breeding tolerated
towards Alan, and devoted all the attention she could command to
Stella. Soon the two were laughing together over some feminine little
bit of fun; then Lucy brought out an intricate piece of tatting,
which, when completed, was to find its way to Notting Hill—the
antimacassar of Mr. Durham’s first visit there being, in fact, her
handiwork; and, lastly, Lucy, once more for the moment with pretty
pink cheeks and brightened eyes, convoyed her new friend upstairs to
inspect Jane’s bridal dress, white satin, under Honiton lace.
When the visit was over, and Lucy safe in the privacy of her own
room, a sigh of relief escaped her, followed by a sentiment of deep
thankfulness; she had met Alan again, and he had disappointed her.
Yes, the spectre which had haunted her for weeks past had, at length,
been brought face to face and had vanished. Perhaps surprise at his
marriage had magnified her apparent disappointment, perhaps dread of
continuing to love another woman’s husband had imparted a morbid and
unreal sensitiveness to her feelings; be this as it might, she had
now seen Alan again, and had felt irritated by the very manner that
used to charm. In the revulsion of her feelings she was almost ready
to deem herself fortunate and Stella pitiable.
She felt excited, exalted, triumphant rather than happy; a little
pained, and, withal, very glad. Life seemed to glow within her, her
blood to course faster and fuller, her heart to throb, lightened of a
load. Recollections which she had not dared face alone, Mr. Hartley,
by recalling, had stripped of their dangerous charm; had stripped of
the tenderness she had dreaded, and the sting under which she had
writhed; for he was the same, yet not the same. Now, for the first
time, she suspected him not indeed of hollowness, but of shallowness.
She threw open her window to the glorious August moon and stars, and,
leaning out, drank deep of the cool night air. She ceased to think of
persons, of events, of feelings.; her whole heart swelled, and became
uplifted with a thankfulness altogether new to her, profound,
transporting. When at length she slept, it was with moist eyes and
smiling lips.