MRS. PALMER.
Le Baron--'Je vais m'entermer pour m'abandonner a ma douleur.
Dites-lui s'il me demande, que je suis enferme et que je m'abandonne
a ma douleur ...'
--A. De Musset.
When they were a little calmed down, when they had left the moon and the
stars outside in the garden, and were all standing in a group in the
drawing-room round the chair in which Mrs. Palmer had been placed, Dolly
saw her mother's face at last. She vaguely remembered her out of the
long ago, a very young and beautiful face smiling at her: this face was
rounder and fuller than the picture, but more familiar than her
remembrance. Mrs. Palmer was a stout and graceful woman, with a sort of
undulating motion peculiar to her, and with looks and ways some of which
Dolly recognised, though she had forgotten them before. There was a
strong likeness to Dolly herself, and even a little bit of George's look
when he was pleased, though poor George's thick complexion and snub nose
were far, far removed from any likeness to that fair and delicate
countenance. Dolly gazed admiringly at the soft white hand, with the
great Louis-Quinze ring upon the forefinger. Though Mrs. Palmer had come
off a journey in semi-hysterics, she was beautifully dressed in a black
silk dress, all over rippling waved flounces, that flowed to her feet.
She was leaning back in the chair, with half-closed eyes, but with a
tender, contented smile.
'I knew you would take me in,' she said to Lady Sarah. 'I felt I was
coming home--to my dear sister's home. See,' she said, 'what dear Stan
gave me for my wedding-gift. I chose it at Lambert's myself. We spared
no expense. I have never taken off his dear ring;' and she put out her
soft hand and took hold of Lady Sarah's mitten.' Oh, Sarah, to think--to
think----'
Lady Sarah shrunk back as usual though she answered not unkindly: 'Not
now, Philippa,' she said, hastily. 'Of course this house is your home,
and always open to you; at least, when we know you are coming. Why did
you not write? There is no bed ready. I have had the maids called up. If
Admiral Palmer had let me know----'
'He did not know,' said Mrs. Palmer, getting agitated. 'I will tell you
all. Oh, Dolly, my darling, beware how you marry; promise me----'
'He did not know?' interrupted Lady Sarah.
Dolly's mother got more and more excited.
'I had some one to take care of me,' she said. 'My old friend Colonel
Witherington was on board, and I told him everything as we were coming
along. I telegraphed to you, did I not? But my poor head fails me. Oh,
Sarah, exile is a cruel thing; and now, how do I know that I have not
come home too soon?' she said, bursting into tears. 'If you knew
all----'
'You shall tell us all about it in the morning, when you are rested,'
said Lady Sarah, with a glance at Robert.
'Yes, in the morning, yes,' said Mrs. Palmer, looking relieved, and
getting up from her chair, and wiping her eyes. 'How good you are to me!
Am I to have my old room where I used to stay as a girl? Oh, Sarah, to
think of my longings being realised at last, and my darling
children--dear Stan's children--there actually before me.' And the poor
thing, with a natural emotion, once more caught first one, then the
other, to her, and sat holding her son's hand in both hers. When he
tried to take it away she burst into fresh tears, and, as a last
resource, Marker was summoned.
Poor Mrs. Palmer! her surprise had been something of a failure; George
was not expansive, nor used to having his hand held: the boy and girl
were shy, stiff, taken aback, Aunt Sarah was kind, but cross and
bewildered: Mrs. Palmer herself exhausted after twelve hours' railway
journey, and vaguely disappointed.
'It was just like her,' said Lady Sarah, wearily, to Marker, as they
were going upstairs some two hours later, after seeing Mrs. Palmer safe
into her room, and bolting the doors, and putting out the lights of this
eventful evening. 'What can have brought her in this way?'
Marker looked at her mistress with her smiling round face. 'The wonder
to me was whatever kept her away so long from those sweet children, to
say nothing of you, my lady.'
'She has chosen to make other ties,' said Lady Sarah; 'her whole duty is
to her husband. Good-night, Marker: I do not want you to-night.'
'Of course you know best, my lady,' says Marker doubtfully. 'Good-night,
my lady.'
And then all was quite silent in the old house. The mice peeped out of
their little holes and sniffed at the cheese-trap; a vast company of
black beetles emerged from secret places and corners; the clocks began
to tick like mad. Dolly lay awake a long time, and then dreamt of her
new mamma, and of the moonlight that evening, and of a floating sea.
Mrs. Palmer slept placidly between her linen sheets. Sarah Francis lay
awake half the night crying her eyes and her aching heart away in bitter
tears. Philippa was come. She knew of old what her advent meant. She
loved Philippa, but with reserve and pain; and now she would claim her
Dolly, she would win her away, and steal her treasure from her
again--what chance had she, sad and sorry and silent, with no means of
uttering her love? She was a foolish, jealous woman; she knew it, and
with all her true heart she prayed for strength and for love to overcome
jealousy and loneliness. Once in her life her difficult nature had
caused misery so great between her and her husband that the breach had
never been repaired, and it was Philippa who had brought it all about.
Now Sarah knew that to love more is the only secret for overcoming that
cruellest madness of jealousy, and to love more was her prayer. The dawn
came at last, stealing tranquilly through the drawn curtains: with what
peace and tranquillity the faint light flowed, healing and quieting her
pain.
* * * * *
Dolly's new mamma's account of herself next morning was a little
incoherent. Her health was very indifferent; she suffered agonies, and
was living upon morphia when the doctor had ordered her home without
delay. She had been obliged to come off at a few hours' notice; she
didn't write. The Admiral was fortunately absent on a cruise, or he
never would have let her go. He knew what a helpless creature she was.
She had borrowed the passage-money from a friend. Would Lady Sarah
please advance her a little now, as she was literally penniless, and she
wished to make George and Dolly some presents, and to engage a French
maid at once? She supposed she should hear by the next post and receive
some remittances. She was not sure, for Hawtry was so dreadfully close
about money. She did not know _what_ he would say to her running away.
No doubt he would use dreadful language, pious as he was; _that_ she was
used to; Colonel Witherington could testify to it.... And then she
sighed. 'I have made my own fate; I must bear my punishment,' she said.
'I shall try some German baths before his return, to brace my nerves for
the--the future.'
There was something soft, harmonious, gently affecting about Dolly's
mamma. When Mrs. Palmer spoke she looked at you with two brown eyes
shining out of a faded but charming face: she put out an earnest white
hand; there was a charming, natural affectation about her. She delighted
in a situation. She was one of those fortunate people whose parts in
life coincide with their dispositions. She had been twice married. As a
happy wife people had thought her scarcely aware of the prize she had
drawn. As an injured woman she was simply perfect. She did not feel the
Admiral's indifference deeply enough to lose her self-possession, as he
did. Admiral though he was, and extempore preacher, he could not always
hold his own before this susceptible woman. Her gentle impressiveness
completely charmed and won the children over.
The conversation of selfish people is often far more amusing than that
of the unselfish, who see things too _diffusedly_, and who have not, as
a rule, the gift of vivid description. Mrs. Palmer was deeply, deeply
interested in her own various feelings. She used to whisper long stories
to George and Dolly about her complicated sorrows, her peculiar
difficulties. Poor thing! they were real enough, if she had but known
them; but the troubles that really troubled her were imaginary for the
most part. She had secured two valiant champions before breakfast next
morning, at which meal Robert appeared. He had slept upon the crisis,
and now seemed more than equal to it; affectionate to his aunt, with
whom he was charmed, readily answering her many questions, skilfully
avoiding the subject of her difficulties with the Admiral, of which he
had heard before at Henley Court. He was pleased by his aunt's manner
and affectionate dependence, and he treated her from the first with a
certain manly superiority. And yet--so she told Dolly--even Robert
scarcely understood her peculiar difficulties.
'How can he, dear fellow? He is prejudiced by Lady Henley--odious woman!
I can trace her influence. She was a Palmer, you know, and she is worthy
of the name. I dread my visit to Yorkshire. This is my real home.'
Mrs. Palmer's mother, Lady Henley, had been an Alderville, and the
Aldervilles are all young, beautiful, helpless, stout, and elegantly
dressed. Mrs. Palmer took after them, she said. But helpless as Philippa
was, her feebleness always leant in the direction in which she wished to
go, and, in some mysterious fashion, she seemed to get on as well as
other stronger people. Some young officer, in a complimentary copy of
verses, had once likened her to a lily. If so, it was a water-lily that
she resembled most, with its beautiful pale head drifting on the water,
while underneath was a long, limp, straggling stalk firmly rooted. Only
those who had tried to influence her knew of its existence.
Dolly and George hung upon her words. George felt inclined to go off to
Ceylon on purpose to shoot the Admiral with one of his own Colt's
revolvers. Dolly thrilled with interest and excitement and sympathy. Her
mother was like a sweet angel, the girl said to her brother. It was a
wonderful new life that had begun for them. The trouble which had so
oppressed Dolly of late seemed almost forgotten for a time. Lady Sarah,
coming and going about the house, would look with a strange half-glad,
half-sad glance at the three heads so near together in the recess of
the window: Philippa leaning back, flushed and pathetic; George by her
side, making the most hideous faces, as he was used to do when
excited; Dolly kneeling on the floor, with her two elbows in her
mother's lap, and her long chin upturned in breathless sympathy.
Admiral--jealousy--meanness-cruel--mere necessaries: little words like
this used to reach Lady Sarah, creaking uneasily and desolately,
unnoticed, round and round the drawing-room.
'Is it not a pity, Philippa, to put such ideas into their heads?' says
Lady Sarah, from the other end of the room.
Then three pair of eyes would be turned upon her with a sort of
reproachful wonder, and the trio would wait until she was out of hearing
to begin again.
Mrs. Palmer was certainly an adaptable woman in some ways: one husband
or another, one life or another. So long as she had her emotions, her
maid, her cups of tea, her comfortable sofa, and some one to listen to
her, she was perfectly happy. She carried about in herself such an
unfailing source of interest and solicitude, that no other was really
necessary to her; although, to hear her speak, you would imagine her
fate to be one long regret.
'My spirit is quite broken,' she would say, cheerfully. 'Give me that
small hand-screen, Dolly; for _your_ sake, Sarah, I will gladly
chaperone Dolly to Cambridge, as Robert proposes (it must be after my
return from Yorkshire); but I do wish you would let me write and ask for
an invitation for you. George, poor fellow, wants me to bring Rhoda and
the Morgan girls. I do hate girls. It is really wicked of him.'
'If that were George's worst offence----,' said his Aunt Sarah, grimly.
'My poor boy!' said Mrs. Palmer. 'Sarah, you are not a mother, and do
not understand him. Come here, darling George. How I wish I could spare
you from going back to those horrid examinations!'
George flushed up very red. 'I should be very sorry to be spared,' he
muttered.
Mrs. Palmer used to ask Robert endless questions about Henley Court, and
his aunt Lady Henley. 'Was she looking as weather-beaten as ever? Did
she still wear plaids? Vulgar woman!' whispered Mrs. Palmer to Dolly.
Robert pretended not to hear. 'I shall make a point of going there,
Robert,' she said, 'and facing the Henley buckram.' Robert gravely
assured her that she would be most welcome.
'Welcome, my dear Robert! You cannot imagine what an impertinent letter
I have received from Joanna,' says Mrs. Palmer. 'I shall go when it is
convenient to me, if only to show her that I do not care for anything
she can say. Joanna's style is only to be equalled by the Admiral's. The
mail will be in on Monday.'
So Philippa remained a victim, placidly sipping her coffee and awaiting
the Admiral's insulting letters. The only wonder was that they had not
burst their envelopes and seals, so explosive were they. His fury lashed
itself into dashes and blots and frantic loops and erasures. The bills
had come in for her bracelets and mufflers and tinkling ornaments. Had
she forgotten the fate of the daughters of Jerusalem, that went mincing
and tinkling with their feet? She might take a situation as a
kitchen-maid for all he cared. She was a spendthrift, idle, extravagant,
good-for-nothing, &c. &c. Not one farthing would he allow her, &c. &c.;
and so on. Mrs. Palmer used to go up to her room in high spirits to lie
down to rest on the days they arrived, and send for Colonel Witherington
to consult upon them.
She would not come down till dinner was just over, and appeared on these
occasions in a long grey sort of dressing-gown and a _neglige_ little
lace cap; she used to dine off almonds and raisins and cups of coffee,
to Lady Sarah's secret indignation. 'Oh, Sarah, _you_ will not turn me
away?' Mrs. Palmer would say, leaning back in languid comfort. Lady
Sarah was very sorry, but somewhat sceptical. She would meet Pauline
carrying French novels to the library after scenes which had nearly
unnerved them all.