"These violet delights have violet ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder."
--_Romeo and Juliet._
"That is the way with you men; you don't understand us,--you
_cannot_."
--_Courtship of Miles Standish._
Whether it is because of Marcia's demeanor toward Mr. Buscarlet, or the
unusual excellence of the weather, no one can tell, but to-night Mr.
Amherst is in one of his choicest moods.
Each of his remarks outdoes the last in brilliancy of conception,
whilst all tend in one direction, and show a laudable desire to touch
on open wounds. Even the presence of his chosen intimate, the lawyer,
who remains to dinner and an uncomfortable evening afterward, has not
the power to stop him, though Mr. Buscarlet does all in his knowledge
to conciliate him, and fags on wearily through his gossiping
conversations with an ardor and such an amount of staying power as
raises admiration even in the breast of Marcia.
All in vain. The little black dog has settled down on the old
gentleman's shoulders with a vengeance and a determination to see it
out with the guests not to be shaken.
Poor Mr. Potts is the victim of the hour. Though why, because he is
enraged with Marcia, Mr. Amherst should expend his violence upon the
wretched Plantagenet is a matter for speculation. He leaves no stone
unturned to bring down condemnation on the head of this poor youth and
destroy his peace of mind; but fortunately, Plantagenet has learned the
happy knack of "ducking" mentally and so letting all hostile missiles
fly harmless over his rosy head.
After dinner Mr. Darley good-naturedly suggests a game of besique with
his host, but is snubbed, to the great grief of those assembled in the
drawing-room. Thereupon Darley, with an air of relief, takes up a book
and retires within himself, leaving Mr. Buscarlet to come once more to
the front.
"You have heard, of course, about the Wyburns?" he says, addressing Mr.
Amherst. "They are very much cut up about that second boy. He has
turned out such a failure! He missed his examination again last week."
"I see no cause for wonder. What does Wyburn expect? At sixty-five he
weds a silly chit of nineteen without an earthly idea in her head, and
then dreams of giving a genius to the world! When," says Mr. Amherst,
turning his gaze freely upon the devoted Potts, "men marry late in life
they always beget fools."
"That's me," says Mr. Potts, addressing Molly in an undertone, utterly
unabashed. "My father married at sixty and my mother at twenty-five. In
me you behold the fatal result."
"Well, well," goes on Mr. Buscarlet, hastily, with a view to checking
the storm, "I think in this case it was more idleness than want of
brain."
"My dear Buscarlet, did you ever yet hear of a dunce whose mother did
not go about impressing upon people how idle the dear boy was? Idle?
Pooh! lack of intellect!"
"At all events, the Wyburns are to be pitied. The eldest son's marriage
with one so much beneath him was also a sad blow."
"Was it? Others endure like blows and make no complaint. It is quite
the common and regular thing for the child you have nurtured, to grow
up and embitter your life in every possible way by marrying against
your wishes, or otherwise bringing down disgrace upon your head. I have
been especially blessed in my children and grandchildren."
"Just so, no doubt,--no doubt," says Mr. Buscarlet, nervously. There is
a meaning sneer about the old man's lips.
"Specially blessed," he repeats. "I had reason to be proud of them.
Each child as he or she married gave me fresh cause for joy. Marcia's
mother was an Italian dancer."
"She was an actress," Marcia interposes, calmly, not a line of
displeasure, not the faintest trace of anger, discernible in her pale
face. "I do not recollect having ever heard she danced."
"Probably she suppressed that fact. It hardly adds to one's
respectability. Philip's father was a spendthrift. His son develops day
by day a very dutiful desire to follow in his footsteps."
"Perhaps I might do worse," Shadwell replies, with a little aggravating
laugh. "At all events, he was _beloved_."
"So he was,--while his money lasted. Eleanor's father----"
With a sudden, irrepressible start Molly rises to her feet and, with a
rather white face, turns to her grandfather.
"I will thank you, grandpapa, to say nothing against _my_ father,"
she says, in tones so low, yet so full of dignity and indignation, that
the old man actually pauses.
"High tragedy," says he, with a sneer. "Why, you are all wrongly
assorted. The actress should have been your mother, Eleanor."
Yet it is noticeable that he makes no further attempt to slight the
memory of the dead Massereene.
"I shan't be able to stand much more of this," says Mr. Potts,
presently, coming behind the lounge on which sit Lady Stafford and
Molly. "I shall infallibly blow out at that obnoxious old person, or
else do something equally reprehensible."
"He is a perfect bear," says Cecil angrily.
"He is a wicked old man," says Molly, still trembling with indignation.
"He is a jolly old snook," says Mr. Potts. But as neither of his
listeners know what he means, they do not respond.
"Let us do something," says Plantagenet, briskly.
"But what? Will you sing for us, Molly? 'Music hath charms to soothe
the savage breast.'"
"It would take a good deal of music to soothe our _bete noire_,"
says Potts. "Besides--I confess it,--music is not what Artemus Ward
would call my 'forte.' I don't understand it. I am like the man who
said he only knew two tunes in the world: one was 'God save the Queen,'
and the other wasn't. No, let us do something active,--something
unusual, something wicked."
"If you can suggest anything likely to answer to your description, you
will make me your friend for life," says Cecil, with solemnity. "I feel
bad."
"Did you ever see a devil?" asks Mr. Potts, in a sepulchral tone.
"A what?" exclaim Cecil and Molly, in a breath.
"A devil," repeats he, unmoved. "I don't mean our own particular old
gentleman, who has been behaving so sweetly to-night, but a regular
_bona fide_ one."
"Are you a spiritualist?" Cecil asks with awe.
"Nothing half so paltry. There is no deception about my performance. It
is simplicity itself. There is no rapping, but a great deal of powder.
Have you ever seen one?"
"A devil? Never."
"Should you like to?"
"Shouldn't I!" says Cecil, with enthusiasm.
"Then you shall. It won't be much, you know, but it has a pretty
effect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening to
the honeyed speeches of our host. I will go and prepare my work, and
call you when it is ready."
In twenty minutes he returns and beckons them to come; and, rising,
both girls quit the drawing-room.
With much glee Mr. Potts conducts them across the hall into the
library, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushed
into a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupies
the middle of the floor.
On this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and tapering
at the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which Mr. Potts
has been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until,
according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness.
"Good gracious! what is it?" asks Molly.
"Powder," says Potts.
"I hope it won't go off and blow us all to bits," says Cecil,
anxiously.
"It will go off, certainly, but it won't do any damage," replies their
showman, with confidence; "and really it is very pretty while burning.
I used to make 'em by hundreds when I was a boy, and nothing ever
happened except once, when I blew the ear off my father's coachman."
This is not reassuring. Molly gets a little closer to Cecil, and Cecil
gets a little nearer to Molly. They both sensibly increase the distance
between them and the "devil."
"Now I am going to put out the lamp," says Plantagenet, suiting the
action to the word and suddenly placing them in darkness. "It don't
look anything if there is light to overpower its own brilliancy."
Striking a match, he applies it to the little black mountain, and in a
second it turns into a burning one. The sparks fly rapidly upward. It
seems to be pouring its fire in little liquid streams all down its
sides.
Cecil and Molly are in raptures.
"It is Vesuvius," says the former.
"It is Mount Etna," says the latter, "except much better, because they
don't seem to have any volcanoes nowadays. Mr. Potts, you deserve a
prize medal for giving us such a treat."
"Plantagenet, my dear, I didn't believe it was in you," says Cecil.
"Permit me to compliment you on your unprecedented success."
Presently, however, they slightly alter their sentiments. Every
school-boy knows how overpowering is the smell of burnt powder.
"What an intolerable smell!" says Molly, when the little mound is half
burned down, putting her dainty handkerchief up to her nose. "Oh! what
is it? Gunpowder? Brimstone? _Sulphur?_"
"And extremely appropriate, too, dear," says Cecil, who has also got
her nose buried in her cambric; "entirely carries out the character of
the entertainment. You surely don't expect to be regaled with incense
or attar of roses. By the bye, Plantagenet, is there going to be much
more of it,--the smell, I mean?"
"Not much," replies he. "And, after all, what is it? If you went out
shooting every day you would think nothing of it. For my part I almost
like the smell. It is wholesome, and--er---- Oh, by Jove!"
There is a loud report,--a crash,--two terrified screams,--and then
utter darkness. The base of the hill, being too dry, has treacherously
gone off without warning: hence the explosion.
"You aren't hurt, are you?" asks Mr. Potts, a minute later, in a
terrified whisper, being unable to see whether his companions are dead
or alive.
"Not much," replies Cecil, in a trembling tone; "but, oh! what has
happened? Molly, speak."
"I am quite safe," says Molly, "but horribly frightened. Mr. Potts, are
you all right?"
"I am." He is ignorant of the fact that one of his cheeks is black as
any nigger's, and that both his hands resemble it. "I really thought it
was all up when I heard you scream. It was that wretched powder that
got too dry at the end. However, it doesn't matter."
"Have you both your ears, Molly?" asks Cecil, with a laugh; but a
sudden commotion in the hall outside, and the rapid advance of
footsteps in their direction, check her merriment.
"I hear Mr. Amherst's voice," says Mr. Potts, tragically. "If he finds
us here we are ruined."
"Let us get behind the curtains at the other end of the room," whispers
Cecil, hurriedly; "they may not find us there,--and--throw the plate
out of the window."
No sooner said than done: Plantagenet with a quick movement
precipitates the soup-plate--or rather what remains of it--into the
court-yard beneath, where it falls with a horrible clatter, and hastily
follows his two companions into their uncertain hiding-place.
It stands in a remote corner, rather hidden by a bookcase, and consists
of a broad wooden pedestal, hung round with curtains, that once
supported a choice statue. The statue having been promoted some time
since, the three conspirators now take its place, and find themselves
completely concealed by its falling draperies.
This recess, having been originally intended for one, can with
difficulty conceal two, so I leave it to your imagination to consider
how badly three fare for room inside it.
Mr. Potts, finding himself in the middle, begins to wish he had been
born without arms, as he now knows not how to dispose of them. He stirs
the right one, and Cecil instantly declares in an agonized whisper that
she is falling off the pedestal. He moves the left, and Molly murmurs
frantically in another instant she will be through the curtains at her
side. Driven to distraction, poor Potts, with many apologies, solves
the difficulty by placing an arm round each complainant, and so
supports them on their treacherous footing.
They have scarcely brought themselves into a retainable position when
the door opens and Mr. Amherst enters the room, followed by Sir
Penthony Stafford and Luttrell.
With one candlestick only are they armed, which Sir Penthony holds,
having naturally expected to find the library lighted.
"What is the meaning of this smell?" exclaims Mr. Amherst, in an awful
voice, that makes our three friends shiver in their shoes. "Has any one
been trying to blow up the house? I insist on learning the meaning of
this disgraceful affair."
"There doesn't seem to be anything," says Tedcastle, "except gunpowder,
or rather the unpleasant remains of it. The burglar has evidently
flown."
"If you intend turning the matter into a joke," retorts Mr. Amherst,
"you had better leave the room."
"Nothing shall induce me to quit the post of danger," replies Luttrell,
unruffled.
Meantime, Sir Penthony, who is of a more suspicious nature, is making a
more elaborate search. Slowly, methodically he commences a tour round
the room, until presently he comes to a stand-still before the curtains
that conceal the trembling trio.
Mr. Amherst, in the middle of the floor, is busily engaged examining
the chips of china that remain after their _fiasco_,--and that
ought to tell the tale of a soup-plate.
Tedcastle comes to Sir Penthony's side.
Together they withdraw the curtains; together they view what rests
behind them.
Grand tableau!
Mr. Potts, with half his face blackened beyond recognition, glares out
at them with the courage of despair. On one side of him is Lady
Stafford, on the other Miss Massereene; from behind each of their
waists protrudes a huge and sooty hand. That hand belongs to Potts.
Three pairs of eyes gleam at the discoverers, silently, entreatingly,
yet with what different expressions! Molly is frightened, but evidently
braced for action; Mr. Potts is defiant; Lady Stafford is absolutely
convulsed with laughter. Already filled with a keen sense of the
comicality of the situation, it only wanted her husband's face of
indignant surprise to utterly unsettle her. Therefore it is that the
one embarrassment she suffers from is a difficulty in refraining from
an outburst of merriment.
There is a dead silence. Only the grating of Mr. Amherst's bits of
china mars the stillness. Plantagenet, staring at his judges, defies
them, without a word, to betray their retreat. The judges--although
angry--stare back at him, and acknowledge their inability to play the
sneak. Sir Penthony drops the curtain,--and the candle. Instantly
darkness covers them. Luttrell scrapes a heavy chair along the waxed
borders of the floor; there is some faint confusion, a rustle of
petticoats, a few more footsteps than ought to be in the room, an
uncivil remark from old Amherst about some people's fingers being all
thumbs, and then once more silence.
When, after a pause, Sir Penthony relights his candle, the search is at
an end.
Now that they are well out of the library, though still in the gloomy
little anteroom that leads to it, Molly and Cecil pause to recover
breath. For a few moments they keep an unbroken quiet. Lady Stafford is
the first to speak,--as might be expected.
"I am bitterly disappointed," she says, in a tone of intense disgust.
"It is a downright swindle. In spite of a belief that has lasted for
years, that nose of his is a failure. I think _nothing_ of it.
With all its length and all its sharpness, it never found us out!"
"Let us be thankful for that same," returns Molly, devoutly.
By this time they have reached the outer hall, where the lamps are
shining vigorously. They now shine down with unkind brilliancy on Mr.
Potts's disfigured countenance. A heavy veil of black spreads from his
nose to his left ear, rather spoiling the effect of his unique
ugliness.
It is impossible to resist; Lady Stafford instantly breaks down, and
gives way to the laughter that has been oppressing her for the last
half-hour, Molly chimes in, and together they laugh with such hearty
delight that Mr. Potts burns to know the cause of their mirth, that he
may join in.
He grins, however, in sympathy, whilst waiting impatiently an
explanation. His utter ignorance of the real reason only enhances the
absurdity of his appearance and prolongs the delight of his companions.
When two minutes have elapsed, and still neither of them offers any
information, he grows grave, and whispers rather to himself than them,
the one word, "Hysterics?"
"You are right," cries Cecil: "I was never nearer hysterics in my life.
Oh, Plantagenet! your face is as black as--as----"
"Your hat!" supplies Molly, as well as she can speak. "And your
hands,--you look demoniacal. Do run away and wash yourself and---- I
hear somebody coming."
Whereupon Potts scampers up-stairs, while the other two gain the
drawing-room, just as Mr. Amherst appears in the hall.
Seeing them, half an hour later, seated in all quietude and sobriety,
discussing the war and the last new marvel in bonnets, who would have
supposed them guilty of their impromptu game of "hide and seek"?
Tedcastle and Sir Penthony, indeed, look much more like the real
culprits, being justly annoyed, and consequently rather cloudy about
the brows. Yet, with a sense of dignified pride, the two gentlemen
abstain from giving voice to their disapprobation, and make no comment
on the event of the evening.
Mr. Potts is serenity itself, and is apparently ignorant of having
given offense to any one. His face has regained its pristine fairness,
and is scrupulously clean; so is his conscience. He looks incapable of
harm.
Bed-hour arrives, and Tedcastle retires to his pipe without betraying
his inmost feelings. Sir Penthony is determined to follow his lead;
Cecil is equally determined he shall not. To have it out with him
without further loss of time is her fixed intention, and with that
design she says, a little imperiously:
"Sir Penthony, get me my candle."
She has lingered, before saying this, until almost all the others have
disappeared. The last of the men is vanishing round the corner that
leads to the smoking-room; the last of the women has gone beyond sight
of the staircase in search of her bedroom fire. Cecil and her husband
stand alone in the vast hall.
"I fear you are annoyed about something," she says, in a maddening tone
of commiseration, regarding him keenly, while he gravely lights her
candle.
"Why should you suppose so?"
"Because of your gravity and unusual silence."
"I was never a great talker, and I do not think I am in the habit of
laughing more than other people."
"But you have not laughed at all,--all this evening, at least,"--with a
smile,--"not since you discovered us in durance vile."
"Did you find the situation so unpleasant? I fancied it rather amused
you,--so much so that you even appeared to forget the dignity that, as
a married woman, ought to belong to you."
"Well, but!"--provokingly--"you forget how very _little_ married I
am."
"At all events you are my wife,"--rather angrily; "I must beg you to
remember that. And for the future I shall ask you to refrain from such
amusements as call for concealment and necessitate the support of a
young man's arm."
"I really do not see by what right you interfere with either me or my
amusements," says Cecil, hotly, after a decided pause. Never has he
addressed her with so much sternness. She raises her eyes to his and
colors richly all through her creamy skin. "Recollect our bargain."
"I do. I recollect also that you have my name."
"And you have my money. That makes us quits."
"I do not see how you intend carrying out that argument. The money was
quite as much mine as yours."
"But you could not have had it without me."
"Nor you without me."
"Which is to be regretted. At least I should have had a clear half,
which I haven't; so you have the best of it. And--I will not be
followed about, and pried after, and made generally uncomfortable by
any one."
"Who is prying after you?"
"You are."
"What do you mean, Cecil?" Haughtily.
"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call
_you_ by your Christian name without its prefix, I think you might
have the courtesy to address _me_ as Lady Stafford."
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"I do. Have you anything more to say?"
"Yes, more than----"
"Then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"--with a bare-faced attempt at
a yawn--"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony."
Sir Penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth,--a sure
sign of irritation,--and declines to answer.
"Good-night," repeats her ladyship, blandly, going up the staircase,
with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling no
surprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply.
When she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and,
leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband,
standing irresolute and angry in the hall beneath.
"Sir Penthony," murmurs she; "Sir----" Here she hesitates for so long a
time that when at last the "Penthony" does come it sounds more familiar
and almost unconnected with the preceding word.
Stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. She is dressed in some
soft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows and
bands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin,
her laughing eyes, and her pouting, rosy lips. In her hair, which she
wears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are a
few pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears no
bracelets, only two narrow bands of black velvet caught with pearls,
that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are.
"Good-night," she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow,
sweet fashion that has some grace or charm about it all its own, and
makes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before.
Stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up at
her entranced like some modern Romeo. Indeed, there is something almost
theatrical about them as they linger, each waiting for the other to
speak,--he fond and impassioned, yet half angry too, she calm and
smiling, yet mutinous.
For a full minute they thus hesitate, looking into each other's eyes;
then the anger fades from Stafford's face, and he whispers, eagerly,
tenderly:
"Good-night, my----"
"Friend," murmurs back her ladyship, decisively, leaning yet a little
farther over the banisters.
Then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that has
lain on her bosom all the evening, and, with a last backward glance and
smile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes.
"I shall positively lose my heart to her if I don't take care," thinks
the young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long ago
it is since that misfortune has befallen him. But we are ever slow to
acknowledge our own defeats. His eyes are fixed upon the flower at his
feet.
"No, I do not want her flowers," he says, with a slight frown, pushing
it away from him disdainfully. "It was a mere chance my getting it. Any
other fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite as
favored,--nay, beyond doubt more so. I will not stoop for it."
With his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire length
of the hall, his arms folded determinedly behind him, until he reaches
a door at the upper end.
Here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. Yes, it is still
there, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her,
now sending forth its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world.
It is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on,
perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative John or Thomas, or, worse
still, to be worn by an appreciative James. Desecration!
"'Who hesitates is lost,'" quotes Stafford, aloud, with an angry laugh
at his own folly, and, walking deliberately back again, picks up the
flower and presses it to his lips.
"I thought that little speech applied only to us poor women," says a
soft voice above him, as, to his everlasting chagrin, Cecil's
mischievous, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead.
"Have another flower, Sir Penthony? You seem fond of them."
She throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as she
speaks with very accurate aim.
"It was yours," stammers Sir Penthony, utterly taken aback.
"_So_ it was,"--with an accent of affected surprise,--"which makes
your behavior all the more astonishing. Well, do not stand there
kissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then--what
_should_ I do?"
"What?"
"Die of grief, most probably." With a little mocking laugh.
"Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen so
low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting my
sweetness on----"
"Is it sweetness?" asks she, wickedly.
At this they both laugh,--a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a
fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, that
adds a certain zest to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, in
answer to her words, "Try."
"No, thank you." With a little _moue_. "Curiosity is not my
besetting sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treat
my parting gift a moment ago. Ah!"--with a little suppressed laugh of
the very fullest enjoyment,--"you cannot think what an interesting
picture you made,--almost tragic. First you stalked away from my
unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; and
then, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective,
you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were--let us
say, for convenience sake--_myself_, devoured it with kisses. I
assure you it was better than a play. Well,"--with a sigh,--"I won't
detain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers."
"Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I--have something to say to
you."
"No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to stay
now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was
hanging over me; and--I hate being taken to task."
"I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you about
anything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course.
Cecil, stay."
"Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony." With a tormenting smile.
"Lady Stafford then,--anything, if you will only stay."
"I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bare
idea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet as
parting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen it until
to-morrow. Till then--farewell. And--Sir Penthony--be sure you dream of
me. I like being dreamed of by my----"
"By whom?"
"My slaves," returns this coquette of all coquettes, with a last
lingering glance and smile. After which she finally disappears.
"There is no use disguising the fact any longer,--I _have_ lost my
heart," groans Sir Penthony, in despair, as he straightway carries off
both himself and his cherished flowers to the shelter of his own room.