MARY DALLORY.
The guests waited in the drawing-room. Madam, with gracious suavity,
was bestowing her smiles on all, after her manner in society, her
white silk dress gleaming with richness. A slight frown crossed her
brow, however, at the tardy entrance of her son and Richard North.
"We have waited for you," she said rather sharply. "Dinner has been
announced."
Richard found his father did not intend to be present, and that he
must act as host, which was nothing new. Glancing round the room, he
was advancing to Miss Dallory--there was no married lady present
excepting madam--when madam's voice rang out cold and clear.
"Take in Miss Field, Richard. Arthur, you will conduct Miss Dallory."
Now that was wrong according to the rules of etiquette. Miss Dallory,
the great heiress, whose family was of some note in the county, should
have fallen to Richard: Miss Field, a middle-aged lady, had only been
Matilda North's governess. But madam had a way of enforcing her own
commands: or, rather, of letting people know they might not be
disputed. There was a moment's awkwardness: Richard and Arthur both
stood with arrested footsteps; and then each advanced to the appointed
lady. But Miss Dallory nearly upset it all: she turned from Captain
Bohun to Richard, her hand outstretched.
"How do you do, Mr. North?"
He clasped it for a moment. Madam, who had a shrewd way of making
guesses, and of seeing things that no one else saw, had gathered an
idea long ago, that had Richard North's fortunes been in the
ascendant, he might have forgotten the wide gulf separating him from
Mary Dallory--she patrician-born, he plebeian--and asked her to step
over it.
"I did not know you had returned, Miss Dallory, until a few minutes
age," said Richard.
"No! I have been home two days."
They parted. Madam was sweeping on to the dining-room on the arm of a
Colonel Carter, whose acquaintance she had made at Homburg, and the
rest had to follow. Richard brought up the rear with Miss Field.
Miss Dallory, a rather tall and graceful girl of two-and-twenty, sat
between Arthur Bohun and Richard North. She was not particularly
handsome, but very pleasing. A fair-complexioned face with plenty of
good sense in it, grey eyes rather deeply set, and soft dark-brown
hair. Her manners were remarkably open: her speech independent. It was
this perhaps--the pleasantness of the speech and manner--that made her
a favourite with every one.
The Dallorys were very wealthy. There were three of them: Miss Dallory
and her two brothers, John and Frank, both older than herself. They
had been left orphans at an early age: their father's will having
bequeathed his property almost equally amongst the three; the portion
of it entailed on his elder son lay in another county. To the surprise
of many people, it was found that he had left Dallory Hall to his
daughter; so that, in point of fact, this Miss Dallory, sitting at Mr.
North's dinner-table, was owner of the house. It had been the
residence of the Dallorys during Mr. Dallory's lifetime: after his
death, the trustees let it on lease to Mr. North. The lease had been
purchased, so that Mr. North had no rent to pay for it. The lease,
however, had now all but terminated. Madam hoped to be able to get it
renewed: perhaps that might be one of the reasons why she was now
paying court to Mary Dallory. That young lady came into her property
when she was one-and-twenty; and all power lay in her own hands.
Nearly two years ago Miss Dallory had gone on the Continent with her
aunt, Mrs. Leasom. Illness had prolonged Mrs. Leasom's stay there, and
they had only just returned. Mrs. Leasom remained at her home in
London; Miss Dallory came down at once to her younger brother's
house--an extremely pretty place just beyond the Ham.
Dinner progressed. Miss Dallory talked chiefly to Richard, next to
whom she sat; Arthur Bohun, on the other side, was rather silent and
glum. She was telling them of her travels: and jestingly complaining
of finding what she called a grand dinner, when she had thought Mrs.
North was only bringing her to dine en famille. For her dress was
nothing but a coloured muslin.
"Don't laugh at me, Mr. Richard North. If you had been living in a
remote village of Switzerland for months, dining off bonilli and a
tough chicken in your aunt's chamber, you would think this grandeur
itself."
"I did not laugh," answered Richard. "It is a great deal grander than
I like."
"Where is Mr. North?" she asked, slightly lowering her voice.
Richard shook his head. "The grandeur, as you call it, has tired him,
Miss Dallory. He dines almost always in his own room: I join him as
often as I can."
"I hear he is breaking," she continued, her deep grey eyes looking
straight at Richard, pity and concern in their depths. "Frank says
so."
"He is breaking sadly. The prolonged strain is too much for him."
Madam glanced down the table, and spoke in sharp tones.
"Are you attending to Miss Field, Richard?"
Miss Field was on his left hand: Miss Dallory on his right.
"Yes, madam. She heard," added he to Miss Dallory, scarcely moving his
lips.
"And it was high treason, I suppose," rejoined that young lady,
confidentially. "There have been changes in your home, Mr. Richard,
since I was last here. Mr. North's first children were all in it,
then."
"And now two of them have gone out of it. Bessy to another home:
Edmund to--his last one."
"Ah, I heard all. How sad it must have been for you and Mr. North!
John and Frank wrote me word that they followed him to the grave."
"Very sad for him as well as for us," assented Richard. "But he is
better off."
"Who sent that wicked letter?"
Richard North dropped his glance on his plate as he answered,
apparently intent on what was there. Miss Dallory's keen eyes had been
on his: and she used to read a great deal that lay within them.
"There has been no discovery at all."
"It was thought to be Mr. Timothy Wilks, I believe."
"It was certainly not he," said Richard, rather hastily.
"No! He had at least something to do with the mischief, if he did not
write the letter."
"Yes. But without intending evil. The next to leave the home here may
be myself," he added.
"_You!_"
"Of course you have heard that our works are at a standstill? The men
have struck."
"That's old news: I heard it in Switzerland."
"If we are not able to reopen them--and I begin to think we shall not
be--I must go out into the world and seek employment elsewhere."
"Nonsense!"
"If you reflect for a moment, you will see that it is all sober
earnest, Miss Dallory. When a man does not possess the means of
living, he must work for one."
She said no more then. And when she spoke again the subject was
changed.
"Is Bessy's marriage a happy one?"
"Very--as it seems to me. The worst is, Rane gets on as badly as ever
in his profession."
"But why does he?"
"I know not. Except that madam undoubtedly works--always works--to
keep him down."
"How wrong it is! He shall come and attend me. I will get up some
headaches on purpose."
Richard laughed.
"We have had changes also, since you and I met," resumed Miss Dallory.
"But not sad ones. I have become my own mistress in the world; am
independent of every one. And Frank has taken up his abode at Ham
Court for a permanency."
"I hope you intend to make a good use of your independence," said
Richard, gravely.
"Of course. And I shall _be_ independent; you may rely on that."
"We heard it rumoured some time ago that you were likely to lose your
independence, Miss Dallory."
"I! In what way?"
"By getting married."
Their eyes met for a moment, and then dropped. Miss Dallory laughed
lightly.
"Did the news penetrate as far as this? Well, it never was 'likely,'
Mr. Richard North. A--gentleman asked me; but I had reason to suppose
that he wanted my money more than he did myself, and so--nothing came
of it."
"Who was he?"
"It would not be fair to tell you."
"Thank you for correcting me," spoke Richard, in his earnest way. "I
ought to feel shame for asking. I beg your pardon; and his."
Happening to glance at the young lady, he saw that her face had turned
crimson. A rare thing for Miss Dallory. She was too self-possessed to
display emotion on light occasions.
"Have you seen Ham Court lately?" she resumed, looking up; the blushes
making her very pretty.
"Not since your brother came to it. He has not been here long, you
know. I called one day, but they said Mr. Dallory was out."
"The place is very nice now. He has made alterations, and done it up
beautifully. You must come again."
"With pleasure," answered Richard. "How long shall you remain with
him?"
"As long as he will have me. I am not going away yet. I shall make it
my home. Frank has quiet tastes, and so have I: and we intend to live
a Darby and Joan life together, and grow into an old maid and an old
bachelor."
Richard smiled. "How is it Francis did not come with you this
evening?"
"May I dare to tell you why?" she whispered. "When we saw madam's
carriage driving up, Frank disappeared. 'Say I am out,' was his order
to me. He and madam never got on well: as a little boy he was terribly
afraid of her, and I think the feeling has lasted. When I went to put
my bonnet on, I found him shut up in his room. He wished me joy of my
visit, and promised to come and walk home with me in the evening."
Madam rose from table early. Something in the arrangements did not
seem to suit her. It was a warm and lovely evening, and they went out
on the lawn. Miss Dallory slipped round the corner of the house to the
window of Mr. North's parlour.
It stood open and he sat just within it. Sat with his hands on his
knees, and his head drooping. Miss Dallory started: not so much
because his face was thin and worn, but at its hopeless expression. In
her two years' absence, he seemed to have aged ten.
She stepped over the threshold, and gently laid her hands on his. He
looked up as a man bewildered.
"Why--it--it cannot be Mary Dallory."
"It is Mary Dallory; come home at last. Won't you kiss me, dear Mr.
North?"
He kissed her fondly. In the old days, when John North was supposed to
be the most rising man, in a commercial point of view, in the county,
Mr. Dallory had thought it worth while to court his friendship, and
Mr. North had been asked to stand godfather to his little girl.
Mary--after she lost her own parents--was wont to say she belonged to
the Hall, and often would be there. Her aunt, Mrs. Leasom, who had
been a Miss Dallory once, was left guardian to the children, with Ham
Court as her residence until the younger son should be of age, to whom
it would then lapse. But Mrs. Leasom spent a large portion of her time
in London, and sometimes the children had not seen their native place,
Dallory, for years together.
"When did you come home, my dear?"
"To England a week ago. To Ham Court only yesterday. Do you know that
you are much changed?"
"Ay. There's nothing but change in this life, my dear. The nearer we
approach the end of our days, the faster our sorrows seem to come upon
us. I have had more than my share of them, and they have changed me. I
see only one source of comfort left to me in the wide world."
"And that?" she asked, half kneeling at his feet.
"My dear son Richard. No one knows the son he has been to me; the
sacrifices he has made. No one save God."
Miss Dallory gave no answer to this. He was lost in deep abstraction,
thinking no doubt of his many troubles--for he always was thinking of
them--when the person in question entered; Richard North. Miss Dallory
rose and sat down on a chair decorously.
She remained only a minute or two now, and spent the time talking and
laughing. Richard gave her his arm to take her back to the others.
Miss Dallory apparently was in no hurry to go, for she lingered over
some of the flower-beds.
"Is the strike a serious matter?" she questioned in a confidential
tone.
"As serious as it is possible for any matter of the kind to be,"
replied Richard.
"You and your men were always on the best of terms: why did they
become dissatisfied with you?"
"They never became dissatisfied with me. The Trades' Unions' agents
stepped in and persuaded them they would be better off if they could
work less time and be paid more wages. The men listened: it was only
natural they should do so: and presented themselves with these new
demands. I did not grant them, and they struck. That's the case in a
nutshell, Miss Dallory."
"I suppose you would not grant them?"
"I would not grant them upon principle; I could not, because my
profits did not allow it. I am quite certain that if I had given way,
in a short time the men would have demanded more. The Trades' Unions
will never allow them to be satisfied, until----"
"Until what?" she asked, for Richard had stopped.
"Until the country is ruined, and its trade has left it."
"It is a serious thing," she said--and she was very grave now. "I
suppose you would take the men on again upon the old terms?"
"And be glad to do it."
"And they will not come?"
"No. I have offered to meet them half-way. It is of no use."
"Then I think those men deserve to learn what want of employment
means," she returned warmly. "I thought your men were intelligent; I
used to know many of them. When I go amongst them--and that may be
tomorrow---I shall ask them if they have taken leave of their senses.
What does Mrs. Gass say to it all?"
Richard smiled a little. Mrs. Gass said more than he did, he answered,
but it was equally useless.
"And I suppose it is the strike that is troubling Mr. North? I think
him so very much changed."
"It troubles him, of course--and there are other things."
"Does it trouble _you?_" asked Miss Dallory, pointedly, as she looked
straight at him.
"Trouble me!" he rejoined, surprised at the unnecessary question.
"Why, it involves simply ruin, unless we can go on again. Ruin to me,
and to my father with me. There's your brother."
They had reached the lawn at length, and saw Francis Dallory, who had
come for his sister. He was a short, fair young man, with an open
countenance. Madam had already appropriated him.
"Where's Arthur?" demanded madam, imperiously, as Miss Dallory came up
on Richard's arm. "I thought he was with you."
Miss Dallory answered that she had not seen Arthur Bohun since
quitting the dinner-table. No one had seen him, as far as madam could
discover. She suspected he must have gone off somewhere to smoke; and
would have liked to put his pipe behind the fire.
But the pipe was not in fault. Arthur Bohun, possibly thinking there
were enough without him, had quietly made his escape, and gone for a
stroll towards the Ham. It took him so near to Mrs. Cumberland's that
he said to himself he might as well call and ask after the headache
she had been suffering from in the morning.
Sophistry! Nothing but sophistry. Captain Arthur Bohun did not really
care whether her headache was worse or better; until a moment ago he
had not even remembered that she had complained of headache. The
simple truth was, that he could not bear to rest for even one evening
without a glimpse of Ellen Adair. No mother ever hungered for a lost
child as he hungered for her presence.
They were at tea. Mrs. Cumberland, Ellen, and Mr. Seeley. When Jelly
showed Captain Bohun in, the doctor was just taking his second cup.
Ellen, who presided at the tea-tray, asked Captain Bohun if he would
take some, and he rather shortly answered, No. Warfare lay in his
mind. What business had that man to be sitting there on a footing of
companionship with Ellen Adair?
Mrs. Cumberland's head was a little worse, if anything, she replied,
thanking Captain Bohun for his solicitude in regard to it. Mr. Seeley
had given her two draughts of something--ether, she believed--in the
afternoon, but they had not done her head any good.
It might have come to a question as to which would sit out the
other--for Mr. Seeley detected somewhat of the state of Arthur Bohun's
mind, and resented it--but for the entrance of Dr. Rane. Dr. Rane
appeared to have no present intention of leaving again, for he plunged
into a hot discussion with his brother-practitioner, touching some
difficult question in surgery, which seemed quite likely to continue
all night, and Arthur Bohun rose. He would have remained willingly,
but he was ever sensitive as to intruding, and fancied Mrs. Cumberland
might wonder why he stayed.
As he went out, Francis Dallory and his sister were passing on their
walk homeward. Captain Bohun turned with them, and went to the end of
the Ham.
The shades of evening--nay, of night--had stolen over the earth as he
went back again; the light night of summer. The north-west was bright
with its opal tints; a star or two shone in the heavens. Dr. Rane was
pacing his garden walks, his wife on his arm.
"Goodnight, Bessy!" he called out to her, whom he had always regarded
as his stepsister.
"Goodnight, Arthur!" came the hearty rejoinder as Bessy recognized
his voice.
Onwards a few steps--only a few--and it brought Arthur Bohun level
with the window of Mrs. Cumberland's drawing-room. It was not yet
lighted. At the window, standing very closely together, stood the
other doctor and Ellen Adair. In Captain Bohun's desperate jealousy,
he stared Ellen full in the face, and made no movement of recognition.
Turning away with a contemptuous movement, plainly discernible in the
dusk, he went striding on.
Shakespeare never read more truly the human heart than when he said
that jealousy makes the food it feeds on. Arthur Bohun went home
almost maddened; not so much with jealousy in its absolute sense, as
with indignation at the doctor's iniquitous presumption. Could he have
analyzed his own heart fairly, he would have found there full trust in
the good faith of Ellen Adair. But he was swayed by man's erring
nature, and yielded to it.
How innocent it all was! how little suggestive, could Captain Bohun
only have read events correctly. There had been no invitation to tea
at all; Mr. Seeley had gone in just as they began to take it, and was
offered a cup by Mrs. Cumberland. As to being together at the window,
Ellen had been standing there to catch the fading light for her
wool-work, perhaps as an excuse for leaving him and Mrs. Cumberland to
converse alone; and he had just come up to her to say goodnight as
Captain Bohun passed.
If we could only divine the truth of these fancies when jealousy puts
them before us in its false and glaring light, some phases of our
lives might be all the happier in consequence. Arthur Bohun lay
tossing the whole night long on his sleepless pillow, tormenting
himself by wondering what Ellen Adair's answer to Seeley would be.
That the fellow in his audacity was proposing to her as they stood at
the window, he could have sworn before the Lord Chief Baron of
England. It was a wretched night; his tumultuous thoughts were
sufficient to wear him out. Arthur had Collins' "Ode to the Passions"
by heart; but it never occurred to him to recall any part of it to
profit now.
"Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,
Sad proof of thy distressful state.
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed:
And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate."