How she took the News.
It was past midnight when the Tempest carriage drove through the dark
rhododendron shrubberies up to the old Tudor porch. There was a great
pile of logs burning in the hall, giving the home-comers cheery
welcome. There was an antique silver spirit stand with its
accompaniments on one little table for the Squire, and there was
another little table on the opposite side of the hearth for Mrs.
Tempest, with a dainty tea-service sparkling and shining in the red
glow.
A glance at these arrangements would have told you that there were old
servants at the Abbey House, servants who knew their master's and
mistress's ways, and for whom service was more or less a labour of love.
"How nice," said the lady, with a contented sigh. "Pauline has thought
of my cup of tea."
"And Forbes has not forgotten my soda-water," remarked the Squire.
He said nothing about the brandy, which he was pouring into the tall
glass with a liberal hand.
Pauline came to take off her mistress's cloak, and was praised for her
thoughtfulness about the tea, and then dismissed for the night.
The Squire liked to stretch his legs before his own fireside after
dining out; and with the Squire, as with Mr. Squeers, the
leg-stretching process involved the leisurely consumption of a good
deal of brandy and water.
Mr. and Mrs. Tempest talked over the Briarwood dinner-party, and
arrived--with perfect good nature--at the conclusion that it had been a
failure.
"The dinner was excellent," said the Squire, "but the wine went round
too slow; my glasses were empty half the time. That's always the way
when you've a woman at the helm. She never fills her cellars properly,
or trusts her butler thoroughly."
"The dresses were lovely," said Mrs. Tempest, "but everyone looked
bored. How did you like my dress, Edward? I think it's rather good
style. Theodore will charge me horribly for it, I daresay."
"I don't know much about your dress, Pam, but you were the prettiest
woman in the room."
"Oh Edward, at my age!" exclaimed Mrs. Tempest, with a pleased look,
"when there was that lovely Lady Mabel Ashbourne."
"Do you call her lovely?--I don't. Lips too thin; waist too slim; too
much blood, and too little flesh."
"Oh, but surely, Edward, she is grace itself; quite an ethereal
creature. If Violet had more of that refined air----"
"Heaven forbid. Vixen is worth twenty such fine-drawn misses. Lady
Mabel has been spoiled by over-training."
"Roderick is evidently in love with her," suggested Mrs. Tempest,
pouring out another cup of tea.
The clocks had just struck two, the household was at rest, the logs
blazed and cracked merrily, the red light shining on those mail-clad
effigies in the corners, lighting up helm and hauberk, glancing on
greaves and gauntlets. It was an hour of repose and gossip which the
Squire dearly loved.
Hush! what is this creeping softly down the old oak staircase? A
slender white figure with cloudy hair; a small pale face, and two dark
eyes shining with excitement; little feet in black velvet slippers
tripping lightly upon the polished oak.
Is it a ghost? No; ghosts are noiseless, and those little slippers
descend from stair to stair with a gentle pit-a-pit.
"Bless my soul and body!" cried the Squire; "what's this?"
A gush of girlish laughter was his only answer.
"Vixen!"
"Did you take me for a ghost, papa?" cried Violet, descending the last
five stairs with a flying leap, and then, bounding across the hall to
perch, light as a bird, upon her father's knee. "Did I really frighten
you? Did you think the good old Abbey House was going to set up a
family ghost; a white lady, with a dismal history of a broken heart?
You darling papa! I hope you took me for a ghost!"
"Well, upon my word, you know, Vixen, I was just the least bit
staggered. Your little white figure looked like something uncanny
against the black oak balustrades, half in light, half in shadow."
"How nice!" exclaimed Violet.
"But, my dear Violet, what can have induced you to come downstairs at
such an hour?" ejaculated Mrs. Tempest in an aggrieved voice.
"I want to hear all about the party, mamma," answered Vixen coaxingly.
"Do you think I could sleep a wink on the night of Rorie's coming of
age? I heard the joy-bells ringing in my ears all night."
"That was very ridiculous." said Mrs. Tempest, "for there were no
joy-bells after eleven o'clock yesterday."
"But they rang all the same, mamma. It was no use burying my head in
the pillows; those bells only rang the louder. Ding-dong, ding-dong,
dell, Rorie's come of age; ding-dong, dell, Rorie's twenty-one. Then I
thought of the speeches that would be made, and I fancied I could hear
Rorie speaking. Did he make a good speech, papa?"
"Capital, Vix; the only one that was worth hearing!"
"I am so glad! And did he look handsome while he was speaking? I think
the Swiss sunshine has rather over-cooked him, you know; but he is not
unbecomingly brown."
"He looked as handsome a young fellow as you need wish to set eyes on."
"My dear Edward," remonstrated Mrs. Tempest, languidly, too thoroughly
contented with herself to be seriously vexed about anything, "do you
think it is quite wise of you to encourage Violet in that kind of talk?"
"Why should she not talk of him? She never had a brother, and he stands
in the place of one to her. Isn't Rorie the same to you as an elder
brother, Vix?"
The girl's head was on her father's shoulder, one slim arm round his
neck, her face hidden against the Squire's coat-collar. He could not
see the deep warm blush that dyed his daughter's cheek at this home
question.
"I don't quite know what an elder brother would be like, papa. But I'm
very fond of Rorie--when he's nice, and comes to see us before anyone
else, as he did to-day."
"And when he stays away?"
"Oh, then I hate him awfully," exclaimed Vixen, with such energy that
the slender figure trembled faintly as she spoke. "But tell me all
about the party, mamma. Your dress was quite the prettiest, I am sure?"
"I'm not certain of that, Violet," answered Mrs. Tempest with grave
deliberation, as if the question were far too serious to be answered
lightly. "There was a cream-coloured silk, with silver bullion fringe,
that was very striking. As a rule, I detest gold or silver trimmings;
but this was really elegant. It had an effect like moonlight."
"Was that Lady Mabel Ashbourne's dress?" asked Vixen eagerly.
"No; Lady Mabel wore blue gauze--the very palest blue, all puffings and
ruchings--like a cloud."
"Oh mamma! the clouds have no puffings and ruchings."
"My dear, I mean the general effect--a sort of shadowiness which suits
Lady Mabel's ethereal style."
"Ethereal!" repeated Violet thoughtfully; "you seem to admire her very
much, mamma."
"Everybody admires her, my dear."
"Because she is a duke's only daughter."
"No; because she is very lovely, and extremely elegant, and most
accomplished. She played and sang beautifully to-night."
"What did she play, mamma?"
"Chopin!"
"Did she!" cried Vixen. "Then I pity her. Yes, even if she were my
worst enemy I should still pity her."
"People who are fond of music don't mind difficulties," said Mrs.
Tempest.
"Don't they? Then I suppose I'm not fond of it, because I shirk my
practice. But I should be very fond of music if I could grind it on a
barrel organ."
"Oh, Violet, when will you be like Lady Mabel Ashbourne?"
"Never, I devoutly hope," said the Squire.
Here the Squire gave his daughter a hug which might mean anything.
"Never, mamma," answered Violet with conviction. "First and foremost, I
never can be lovely, because I have red hair and a wide mouth.
Secondly, I can never be elegant--much less ethereal--because it isn't
in me. Thirdly, I shall never be accomplished, for poor Miss McCroke is
always giving me up as the baddest lot in the shape of pupils that ever
came in her way."
"If you persist in talking in that horrible way, Violet----"
"Let her talk as she likes, Pam," said the fond father. "I won't have
her bitted too heavily."
Mrs. Tempest breathed a gentle sigh of resignation. The Squire was all
that is dear and good as husband and father, but refinement was out of
his line.
"Do go on about the party, mamma. Did Rorie seem to enjoy himself very
much----"
"I think so. He was very devoted to his cousin all the evening. I
believe they are engaged to be married."
"Mamma!" exclaimed Vixen, starting up from her reclining attitude upon
her father's shoulder, and looking intently at the speaker; "Rorie
engaged to Lady Mabel Ashbourne!"
"So I am told," replied Mrs. Tempest. "It will be a splendid match for
him."
The pretty chestnut head dropped back into its old place upon the
Squire's shoulder, and Violet answered never a word.
"Past two o'clock," cried her mother. "This is really too dreadful.
Come, Violet, you and I must go upstairs at any rate."
"We'll all go," said the Squire, finishing his second brandy and soda.
So they all three went upstairs together. Vixen had grown suddenly
silent and sleepy. She yawned dolefully, and kissed her mother and
father at the end of the gallery, without a word; and then scudded off,
swift as a scared rabbit, to her own room.
"God bless her!" exclaimed the Squire; "she grows prettier and more
winning every day."
"If her mouth were only a little smaller," sighed Mrs. Tempest.
"It's the prettiest mouth I ever saw upon woman--bar one," said the
Squire.
What was Vixen doing while the fond father was praising her?
She had locked her door, and thrown herself face downwards on the
carpet, and was sobbing as if her heart would break.
Rorie was going to be married. Her little kingdom had been overturned
by a revolution: her little world had crumbled all to pieces. Till
to-night she had been a queen in her own mind; and her kingdom had been
Rorie, her subjects had begun and ended in Rorie. All was over. He
belonged to some one else. She could never tyrannise over him
again--never scold him and abuse him and patronise him and ridicule him
any more. He was her Rorie no longer.
Had she ever thought that a time might come when he would be something
more to her than playfellow and friend? No, never. The young bright
mind was too childishly simple for any such foresight or calculation.
She had only thought that he was in somewise her property, and would be
so till the end of both their lives. He was hers, and he was very fond
of her, and she thought him a rather absurd young fellow, and looked
down upon him with airs of ineffable superiority from the altitude of
her childish womanliness.
And now he was gone. The earth had opened all at once and swallowed
him, like that prophetic gentleman in the Greek play, whose name Vixen
could never remember--chariot and horses and all. He belonged
henceforth to Lady Mabel Ashbourne. She could never be rude to him any
more. She could not take such a liberty with another young lady's lover.
"And to think that he should never have told me he was going to be
engaged to her," she said. "He must have been fond of her from the very
beginning; and he never said a word; and he let me think he rather
liked me--or at least tolerated me. And how could he like two people
who are the very antipodes of each other? If he is fond of her, he must
detest me. If he respects her, he must despise me."
The thought of such treachery rankled deep in the young warm heart.
Vixen started up to her feet, and stood in the midst of the firelit
room, with clinched fists, like a young fury. The light chestnut
tresses should have been Medusa's snakes to have harmonised with that
set white face. God had given Violet Tempest a heart to feel deeply,
too deeply for perfect peace, or that angelic softness which seems to
us most worthy in woman--the power to suffer and be patient.