"One silly cross
Wrought all my loss.
O frowning fortune!"
--_The Passionate Pilgrim._
It was an unfortunate thing,--nay, more, it was an unheard-of thing
(because for a man to fall in love with his own wife has in it all the
elements of absurdity, and makes one lose faith in the wise saws and
settled convictions of centuries),--but the fact remained. From the
moment Sir Penthony Stafford came face to face with his wife in the
corridor at Herst he lost his heart to her.
There only rested one thing more to make the catastrophe complete, and
that also came to pass: Cecil was fully and entirely aware of his
sentiments with regard to her.
What woman but knows when a man loves her? What woman but knows (in
spite of all the lies she may utter to her own heart) when a man has
ceased to love her? In dark moments, in the cruel quiet of midnight,
has not the terrible certainty of her loss made her youth grow dead
within her?
Cecil's revenge has come, and I hardly think she spares it.
Scrupulously, carefully, she adheres to her _role_ of friend,
never for an instant permitting him to break through the cold barricade
of mere good-fellowship she has raised between them.
Should he in an imprudent moment seek to undermine this barrier, by a
word, a smile, sweet but chilling, she expresses either astonishment or
amusement at his presumption (the latter being perhaps the more
murderous weapon of the two, as ridicule is death to love), and so
checks him.
To her Sir Penthony is an acquaintance,--a rather amusing one, but
still an acquaintance only,--and so she gives him to understand; while
he chafes and curses his luck a good deal at times, and--grows
desperately jealous.
The development of this last quality delights Cecil. Her flirtation
with Talbot Lowry,--not that it can be called a flirtation, being a
very one-sided affair, the affection Talbot entertains for her being
the only affection about it,--carefully as he seeks to hide it,
irritates Sir Penthony beyond endurance, and, together with her marked
coldness and apparent want of desire for his society, renders him
thoroughly unhappy.
All this gratifies Cecil, who is much too real a woman not to find
pleasure in seeing a man made miserable for love of her.
"I wish you could bring yourself to speak to me now and then without
putting that odious 'Sir' before my name," he says to her one day.
"Anybody would say we were utter strangers."
"Well, and so we are," Cecil replies, opening wide her eyes in affected
astonishment. "How can you dispute it? Why, you never even saw me until
a few days ago."
"You are my wife at all events," says the young man, slightly
discomfited.
"Ay, more's the pity," murmurs her ladyship, with such a sudden,
bewitching, aggravating smile as entirely condones the incivility of
her speech. Sir Penthony smiles too.
"Cecil--Cis,--a pretty name.--It rhymes with kiss," he says, rather
sentimentally.
"So it does. And Penthony,--what does that rhyme with? Tony--money. Ah!
that was our stumbling block."
"It might have been a worse one. There are more disagreeable things than
money. There was once upon a time a stubborn mare, and even she was made
to go by this same much-abused money. By the bye,"--thoughtfully,--"you
don't object to your share of it, do you?"
"By no means. I purchased it so dearly I have quite a veneration for
it."
"I see. I don't think my remark called for so ungracious a reply. To
look at you one could hardly imagine a cruel sentiment coming from your
lips."
"That shows how deceitful appearances can be. Had you troubled yourself
to raise my veil upon your wedding-day you might have made yourself
miserable for life. Really, Sir Penthony, I think you owe me a debt of
gratitude."
"Do you? Then I confess myself _un_grateful. Oh, Cecil, had I only
known----" Here he pauses, warned by the superciliousness of her
bearing, and goes on rather lamely. "Are you cold? Shall I get you a
shawl?" They are standing on the veranda, and the evening is closing
in.
"Cold? No. Who could feel cold on so divine an evening? It reminds one
of the very heart of summer, and---- Ah!" with a little start and a
pleased smile, "here is Mr. Lowry coming across the grass."
"Lowry! It seems to me he always is coming across the grass." Testily.
"Has he no servants, no cook, no roof over his head? Or what on earth
brings him here, morning, noon, and night?"
"I really think he must come to see me," says Lady Stafford, with
modest hesitation. "He was so much with me in town, off and on, that I
dare say he misses me now. He was very attentive about bringing me
flowers and--and that."
"No doubt. It is amazing how thoughtful men can be on occasions. You
like him very much?"
"Very much indeed. He is amiable, good-natured, and has such kind brown
eyes."
"Has he?" With exaggerated surprise. "Is he indeed all that you say? It
is strange how blind a man can be to his neighbor's virtues, whatever
he may be to his faults. Now, if I had been asked my opinion of Talbot
Lowry, I would have said he was the greatest bore and about the ugliest
fellow I ever met in my life."
"Well, of course, strictly speaking, no one could call him handsome,"
Cecil says, feeling apologetic on the score of Mr. Lowry; "but he has
excellent points; and, after all, with me, good looks count for very
little." She takes a calm survey of her companion's patrician features
as she speaks; but Sir Penthony takes no notice of her examination, as
he is looking straight before him at nothing in the world, as far as
she can judge.
"I never meet him without thinking of Master Shallow," he says, rather
witheringly. "May I ask how he managed to make himself so endurable to
you?"
"In many ways. Strange as it may appear to you, he can read poetry
really charmingly. Byron, Tennyson, even Shakespeare, he has read to me
until," says Cecil, with enthusiasm, "he has actually brought the tears
into my eyes."
"I can fancy it," says Sir Penthony, with much disgust, adjusting his
eyeglass with great care in his right eye, the better to contemplate
the approach of this modern hero. "I can readily believe it. He seems
to me the very personification of a 'lady's man,'--a thorough-paced
carpet knight. When," says Sir Penthony, with careful criticism, "I
take into consideration the elegant slimness of his lower limbs and the
cadaverous leanness of his under-jaw, I can almost see him writing
sonnets to his mistress's eyebrow."
"If"--severely--"there is one thing that absolutely repels me, it is
sarcasm. Don't you be sarcastic. It doesn't suit you. I merely said Mr.
Lowry probably feels at a loss, now his mornings are unoccupied, as he
generally spent them with me in town."
"Happy he. Were those mornings equally agreeable to you?"
"They were indeed. But, as you evidently don't admire Talbot, you can
hardly be expected to sympathize with my enjoyment."
"I merely hinted I thought him a conceited coxcomb; and so I do. Ah,
Lowry, how d'ye do? Charmed to see you. Warm evening, is it not?"
"You are come at last, Mr. Lowry," Cecil says, with sweet meaning in
her tone, smiling up at him as he stands beside her, with no eyes but
for her. "What a glorious day we have had! It makes one sad to think it
cannot continue. I do so hate winter."
"Poor winter!" says Lowry, rather insipidly. "It has my most sincere
sympathy. As for the day, I hardly noticed its beauties: I found it
long."
"The sign of an idler. Did you find it _very_ long?"
"Very," says Lowry, with a look that implies his absence from her side
was the sole cause of its tedium, and such an amount of emphasis as
awakens in Sir Penthony a mad desire to horsewhip him. Though how, in
these degenerate days, _can_ one man horsewhip another because he
makes use of that mild word "very"?
It certainly is a delicious evening. Five o'clock has crept on them
almost insensibly, and tea has been brought out to the veranda. Within,
from the drawing-room, a roaring fire throws upon the group outside
white arms of flame, as though petitioning them to enter and accept its
warm invitation.
Marcia, bending over the tea-tray, is looking tall and handsome, and
perhaps a degree less gloomy than usual. Philip, too, is present, also
tall and handsome; only he, by way of contrast, is looking rather more
moody than usual. Molly is absent; so is Luttrell.
Mr. Potts, hovering round the tea-table, like an over-grown clumsy bee,
is doing all that mortal man can do in the way of carrying cups and
upsetting spoons. There are few things more irritating than the clatter
of falling spoons, but Mr. Potts is above irritation, whatever his
friends may be, and meets each fresh mishap with laudable equanimity.
He is evidently enjoying himself, and is also taking very kindly to
such good things in the shape of cake as the morbid footman has been
pleased to bring.
Sir Penthony, who has sturdily declined to quit the battle-field,
stands holding his wife's cup on one side, while Mr. Lowry is supplying
her with cake on the other. There is a good deal of obstinacy mingled
with their devotion.
"I wonder where Molly can be?" Lady Stafford says, at length. "I always
know by instinct when tea is going on in a house. She will be sorry if
she misses hers. Why don't somebody go and fetch her? You, for
instance," she says, turning her face to Sir Penthony.
"I would fly to her," replies he, unmoved, "but I unfortunately don't
know where she is. Besides, I dare say if I knew and went I would find
myself unwelcome. I hate looking people up."
"I haven't seen her all day," says Mr. Potts, in an aggrieved tone,
having finished the last piece of plum-cake, and being much exercised
in his mind as to whether it is the seed or the sponge he will attack
next. "She has been out walking, or writing letters, or something,
since breakfast. I hope nothing has happened to her. Perhaps if we
instituted a search----"
At this moment, Molly, smiling, _gracieuse_, appears at the open
window and steps on the veranda. She is dressed in a soft blue clinging
gown, and has a flower, fresh-gathered, in her hair, another at her
throat, another held loosely in her slender fingers.
"Talk of an angel!" says Philip, softly, but audibly.
"_Were_ you talking of me?" asks modest Molly, turning toward him.
"Well, if ever I heard such a disgracefully conceited speech!" says
Lady Stafford, laughing. But Philip says, "We were," still with his
eyes on Molly.
"Evidently you have all been pining for me," says Molly, gayly. "It is
useless your denying it. Mr. Potts,"--sweetly,--"leave me a little
cake, will you? Don't eat it _all_ up. Knowing as you do my
weakness for seed-cake, I consider it mean of you to behave as you are
now doing."
"You shall have it all," says Mr. Potts, magnanimously. "I devoted
myself to the plum-cake so as to leave this for you; so you see I don't
deserve your sneer."
Philip straightens himself, and his moodiness flies from him. Marcia,
on the contrary, grows _distrait_ and anxious. Molly, with the air
of a little _gourmand_, makes her white teeth meet in her sweet
cake, and, with a sigh of deep content, seats herself on the
window-sill.
Mr. Potts essays to do likewise. In fact, so great is his haste to
secure the coveted position that he trips, loses balance, and crash
goes tea, cup, and all--with which he meant to regale his idol--on to
the stone at his feet.
"You seem determined to outdo yourself this evening, Potts," Sir
Penthony says, mildly, turning his eyeglass upon the delinquent. "First
you did all you knew in the way of battering the silver, and now you
have turned your kind attention on the china. I really think, too, that
it is the very best china,--Wedgwood, is it not? Only yesterday I heard
Mr. Amherst explaining to Lady Elizabeth Eyre, who is rather a
connoisseur in china, how blessed he was in possessing an entire set of
Wedgwood unbroken. I heard him asking her to name a day to come and see
it."
"I don't think you need pile up the agony any higher," Philip
interposes, laughing, coming to the rescue in his grandfather's
absence. "He will never find it out."
"I'm so awfully sorry!" Mr. Potts says, addressing Marcia, his skin
having by this time borrowed largely of his hair in coloring. "It was
unpardonably awkward. I don't know how it happened. But I'll mend it
again for you, Miss Amherst; I've the best cement you ever knew
up-stairs; I always carry it about with me."
"You do right," says Molly, laughing.
"The hot tea won't affect it afterward," goes on Potts triumphantly.
"He is evidently in the habit of going about breaking people's pet
china and mending it again,--knows all about it," murmurs Sir Penthony,
_sotto voce_, with much interest. "It isn't a concoction of your
own, Potts, is it?"
"No; a fellow gave it to me. The least little touch mends, and it never
gives way again."
"That's what's-_meant_ to do," Captain Mottie has the audacity to
say, very unwisely. Of course no one takes the faintest notice. They
all with one consent refuse indignantly to see it; and Longshank's
inevitable "Ha, ha!" falls horribly flat. Only Molly, after a wild
struggle with her better feelings, gives way, and bursts into an
irrepressible fit of laughter, for which the poor captain is intensely
grateful.
Mrs. Darley, who is doing a little mild running with this would-be Joe
Miller, encouraged by Molly, laughs too, and gives the captain to
understand that she thinks it a joke, which is even more than could be
expected of her.
A sound of footsteps upon the gravel beneath redeems any further
awkwardness. They all simultaneously crane their necks over the iron
railings, and all at a glance see Mr. Amherst slowly, but surely,
advancing on them.
He is not alone. Beside him, affording him the support of one arm,
walks a short, stout, pudgy little man, dressed with elaborate care,
and bearing all the distinguishing marks of the lowest breeding in his
face and figure.
It is Mr. Buscarlet, the attorney, without whose advice Mr. Amherst
rarely takes a step in business matters, and for whom--could he be
guilty of such a thing--he has a decided weakness. Mr. Amherst is
frigid and cutting. Mr. Buscarlet is vulgar and gushing. They say
extremes meet. In this case they certainly do, for perhaps he is the
only person in the wide world with whom old Amherst gets on.
With Marcia he is a bugbear,--a _bete noire_. She does not even
trouble herself to tolerate him, which is the one unwise step the wise
Marcia took on her entrance into Herst.
Now, as he comes puffing and panting up the steps to the veranda, she
deliberately turns her back on him.
"Pick up the ghastly remains, Potts," Sir Penthony says, hurriedly,
alluding to the shattered china. Mr. Amherst is still on the lowest
step, having discarded Mr. Buscarlet's arm. "If there is one thing mine
host abhors more than another, it is broken china. If he catches you
red-handed, I shudder for the consequences."
"What an ogre you make him out!" says Molly. "Has he, then, a private
Bastile, or a poisoned dagger, this terrible old man?"
"Neither. He clings to the traditions of the 'good old times.' Skinning
alive, which was a favorite pastime in the dark ages, is the sort of
thing he affects. Dear old gentleman, he cannot bear to see ancient
usages sink into oblivion. Here he is."
Mr. Potts, having carefully removed all traces of his handiness, gazes
with recovered courage on the coming foe.
"Have some tea, grandpapa," says Marcia, attentively, ignoring Mr.
Buscarlet.
"No, thank you. Mr. Buscarlet will probably have some, if he is asked,"
says grandpapa, severely.
"Ah, thank you; thank you. I will take a little tea from Miss Amherst's
fair hands," says the man of law, rubbing his own ecstatically as he
speaks.
"Mr. Longshanks, give this to Mr. Buscarlet," says Marcia, turning to
Longshanks with a cup of tea, although Mr. Buscarlet is at her other
elbow, ready to receive it from her "fair hands."
Mr. Longshanks does as he is bidden; and the attorney, having received
it, walks away discomfited, a fresh score against this haughty hostess
printed on his heart. He has the good luck to come face to face with
pretty Molly, who is never unkind to any one but the man who loves her.
They have met before, so he has no difficulty about addressing her,
though, after his rebuff from Marcia, he feels some faint pangs of
diffidence.
"Is it not a glorious evening?" he says, with hesitation, hardly
knowing how he will be received; "what _should_ we all do but for
the weather?"
"Is it not?" says Molly, with the utmost cheerfulness, smiling on him.
She is so sorry for his defeat, which she witnessed, that her smile is
one of her kindest. "If this weather might only continue, how happy we
should be. Even the flowers would remain with us." She holds up the
white rose in her hand for his admiration.
"A lovely flower, but not so lovely as its possessor," says this
insufferable old lawyer, with a smirk.
"Oh, Mr. Buscarlet! I doubt you are a sad flirt," says Miss Molly, with
an amused glance. "What would Mrs. Buscarlet say if she knew you were
going about paying compliments all round?"
"Not all round, Miss Massereene, pardon me. There is a power about
beauty stronger than any other,--a charm that draws one out of one's
self." With a fat obeisance he says this, and a smile he means to be
fascinating.
Molly laughs. In her place Marcia would have shown disgust; but Molly
only laughs--a delicious laugh, rich with the very sweetest, merriest
music. She admits even to herself she is excessively amused.
"Thank you," she says. "Positively you deserve anything for so pretty a
speech. I am sorry I have nothing better to offer, but--you shall have
my rose."
Still smiling, she goes close to him, and with her own white fingers
places the rose in the old gentleman's coat; while he stands as
infatuated by her grace and beauty as though he still could call
himself twenty-four with a clear conscience, and had no buxom partner
at home ready to devour him at a moment's notice.
Oh, lucky, sweetly-perfumed, pale white rose! Oh, fortunate, kindly,
tender manner! You little guess your influence over the future.
Old Mr. Amherst, who has been watching Molly from afar, now comes
grumbling toward her and leads Mr. Buscarlet away.
"Grandpa is in a bad temper," says Marcia, generally, when they have
quite gone.
"No, you don't say so? What a remarkable occurrence!" exclaims Cecil.
"Now, what _can_ have happened to ruffle so serene a nature as
his?"
"I didn't notice it; I was making a fresh and more lengthened
examination of his features. Yet, I still adhere to my original
conviction: his nose is his strong point." Mr. Potts says this as one
would who had given to the subject years of mature study.
"It _is_ thin," says Lady Stafford.
"It is. Considering his antiquity, his features are really quite
handsome. But his nose--his nose," says Mr. Potts, "is especially fine.
That's a joke: do you see it? Fine! Why, it is sharper than an awl.
'Score two on the shovel for that, Mary Ann.'"
For want of something better to do, they all laugh at Mr. Potts's
rather lame sally. Even Mr. Longshanks so far forgets himself and his
allegiance to his friend as to say "Ha-ha-ha!" out loud--a proceeding
so totally unexpected on the part of Longshanks that they all laugh
again, this time the more heartily that they cannot well explain the
cause of their merriment.
Captain Mottie is justly vexed. The friend of his soul has turned
traitor, and actually expended a valuable laugh upon an outsider.
Mrs. Darley, seeing his vexation, says, quietly, "I do not think it is
good form, or even kind, to speak so of poor Mr. Amherst behind his
back. I cannot bear to hear him abused."
"It is only his nose, dear," says Cecil; "and even you cannot call it
fat without belying your conscience."
Mrs. Darley accepts the apology, and goes back to her mild flirtation.
"How silly that woman is!" Cecil says, somewhat indignantly. She and
Molly and one or two of the men are rather apart. "To hear her going in
for simple sentiments is quite too much for me. When one looks at her,
one cannot help----" She pauses, and taps her foot upon the ground,
impatiently.
"She is rather pretty," says Lowry, glancing carelessly at the powdered
doll's face, with its wealth of dyed hair.
"There was a young lady named Maud,"
says Sir Penthony, addressing his toes,
"Who had recently come from abroad,
Her bloom and her curls,
Which astonished the girls,
Were both an ingenious fraud.
"Ah! here is Tedcastle coming across to us."
Tedcastle, with the boy Darley mounted high on his shoulder, comes
leisurely over the lawn and up the steps.
"There, my little man, now you may run to your mother," he says to the
child, who shows a morbid dislike to leave his side (all children adore
Luttrell). "What! not tired of me yet? Well, stay, then."
"Tea, Tedcastle?"
"No, thank you."
"Let me get you some more, Miss Massereene," says Plantagenet. "You
came late, and have been neglected."
"I think I will take a very little more. But," says Molly, who is in a
tender mood, "you have been going about on duty all the evening. I will
ask Mr. Luttrell to get me some this time, if he will be so kind." She
accompanies this with a glance that sets Luttrell's fond heart beating.
"Ah, Molly, why did you not come with Teddy and me this day, as usual?"
says little Lucien Darley, patting her hand. "It was so nice. Only
there was no regular sun this evening, like yesterday. It was hot, but
I could see no dear little dancing sunbeams; and I asked Teddy why, and
he said there could be no sun where Molly was not. What did he mean by
that?"
"Yes, what _could_ he have meant by that?" asks Sir Penthony, in a
perplexed tone, while Molly blushes one of her rare, sweet blushes, and
lowers her eyes. "It was a wild remark. I can see no sense in it. But
perhaps he will kindly explain. I say, Luttrell, you shouldn't spend
your time telling this child fairy tales; you will make him a
visionary. He says you declared Miss Massereene had entire control over
the sun, moon, and stars, and that they were never known to shine
except where she was."
"I have heard of the '_enfant terrible_,'" says Luttrell,
laughing, to cover some confusion; "I rejoice to say I have at last met
with one. Lucien, I shall tell you no more fantastic stories."