MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME.
Miss Dunstable did not look like a love-lorn maiden, as she stood in
a small ante-chamber at the top of her drawing-room stairs receiving
her guests. Her house was one of those abnormal mansions, which are
to be seen here and there in London, built in compliance rather with
the rules of rural architecture, than with those which usually govern
the erection of city streets and town terraces. It stood back from
its brethren, and alone, so that its owner could walk round it. It
was approached by a short carriageway; the chief door was in the back
of the building; and the front of the house looked on to one of the
parks. Miss Dunstable in procuring it had had her usual luck. It had
been built by an eccentric millionnaire at an enormous cost; and
the eccentric millionnaire, after living in it for twelve months,
had declared that it did not possess a single comfort, and that
it was deficient in most of those details which, in point of
house accommodation, are necessary to the very existence of man.
Consequently the mansion was sold, and Miss Dunstable was the
purchaser. Cranbourn House it had been named, and its present owner
had made no change in this respect; but the world at large very
generally called it Ointment Hall, and Miss Dunstable herself as
frequently used that name for it as any other. It was impossible to
quiz Miss Dunstable with any success, because she always joined in
the joke herself.
Not a word further had passed between Mrs. Gresham and Dr. Thorne on
the subject of their last conversation; but the doctor as he entered
the lady’s portals amongst a tribe of servants and in a glare of
light, and saw the crowd before him and the crowd behind him, felt
that it was quite impossible that he should ever be at home there.
It might be all right that a Miss Dunstable should live in this way,
but it could not be right that the wife of Dr. Thorne should so live.
But all this was a matter of the merest speculation, for he was
well aware—as he said to himself a dozen times—that his niece had
blundered strangely in her reading of Miss Dunstable’s character.
When the Gresham party entered the ante-room into which the staircase
opened, they found Miss Dunstable standing there surrounded by a few
of her most intimate allies. Mrs. Harold Smith was sitting quite
close to her; Dr. Easyman was reclining on a sofa against the wall,
and the lady who habitually lived with Miss Dunstable was by his
side. One or two others were there also, so that a little running
conversation was kept up, in order to relieve Miss Dunstable of the
tedium which might otherwise be engendered by the work she had in
hand. As Mrs. Gresham, leaning on her husband’s arm, entered the
room, she saw the back of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady made her way
through the opposite door, leaning on the arm of the bishop.
Mrs. Harold Smith had apparently recovered from the annoyance which
she must no doubt have felt when Miss Dunstable so utterly rejected
her suit on behalf of her brother. If any feeling had existed, even
for a day, calculated to put a stop to the intimacy between the two
ladies, that feeling had altogether died away, for Mrs. Harold Smith
was conversing with her friend, quite in the old way. She made some
remark on each of the guests as they passed by, and apparently did
so in a manner satisfactory to the owner of the house, for Miss
Dunstable answered with her kindest smiles, and in that genial, happy
tone of voice which gave its peculiar character to her good humour:
“She is quite convinced that you are a mere plagiarist in what you
are doing,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, speaking of Mrs. Proudie.
“And so I am. I don’t suppose there can be anything very original
now-a-days about an evening party.”
“But she thinks you are copying her.”
“And why not? I copy everybody that I see, more or less. You did not
at first begin to wear big petticoats out of your own head? If Mrs.
Proudie has any such pride as that, pray don’t rob her of it. Here’s
the doctor and the Greshams. Mary, my darling, how are you?” and in
spite of all her grandeur of apparel, Miss Dunstable took hold of
Mrs. Gresham and kissed her—to the disgust of the dozen-and-a-half
of the distinguished fashionable world who were passing up the stairs
behind.
The doctor was somewhat repressed in his mode of address by the
communication which had so lately been made to him. Miss Dunstable
was now standing on the very top of the pinnacle of wealth, and
seemed to him to be not only so much above his reach, but also so
far removed from his track in life, that he could not in any way put
himself on a level with her. He could neither aspire so high nor
descend so low; and thinking of this he spoke to Miss Dunstable as
though there were some great distance between them,—as though there
had been no hours of intimate friendship down at Greshamsbury. There
had been such hours, during which Miss Dunstable and Dr. Thorne had
lived as though they belonged to the same world: and this at any rate
may be said of Miss Dunstable, that she had no idea of forgetting
them.
Dr. Thorne merely gave her his hand, and then prepared to pass on.
“Don’t go, doctor,” she said; “for heaven’s sake, don’t go yet. I
don’t know when I may catch you if you get in there. I shan’t be able
to follow you for the next two hours. Lady Meredith, I am so much
obliged to you for coming—your mother will be here, I hope. Oh, I am
so glad! From her you know that is quite a favour. You, Sir George,
are half a sinner yourself, so I don’t think so much about it.”
“Oh, quite so,” said Sir George; “perhaps rather the largest half.”
“The men divide the world into gods and giants,” said Miss Dunstable.
“We women have our divisions also. We are saints or sinners according
to our party. The worst of it is, that we rat almost as often as you
do.” Whereupon Sir George laughed and passed on.
“I know, doctor, you don’t like this kind of thing,” she continued,
“but there is no reason why you should indulge yourself altogether in
your own way, more than another—is there, Frank?”
“I am not so sure but he does like it,” said Mr. Gresham. “There are
some of your reputed friends whom he owns that he is anxious to see.”
“Are there? Then there is some hope of his ratting too. But he’ll
never make a good staunch sinner; will he, Mary? You’re too old to
learn new tricks; eh, doctor?”
“I am afraid I am,” said the doctor, with a faint laugh.
“Does Dr. Thorne rank himself among the army of saints?” asked Mrs.
Harold Smith.
“Decidedly,” said Miss Dunstable. “But you must always remember that
there are saints of different orders; are there not, Mary? and nobody
supposes that the Franciscans and the Dominicans agree very well
together. Dr. Thorne does not belong to the school of St. Proudie,
of Barchester; he would prefer the priestess whom I see coming round
the corner of the staircase, with a very famous young novice at her
elbow.”
“From all that I can hear, you will have to reckon Miss Grantly among
the sinners,” said Mrs. Harold Smith—seeing that Lady Lufton with
her young friend was approaching—“unless, indeed, you can make a
saint of Lady Hartletop.”
And then Lady Lufton entered the room, and Miss Dunstable came
forward to meet her with more quiet respect in her manner than she
had as yet shown to many of her guests. “I am much obliged to you for
coming, Lady Lufton,” she said, “and the more so, for bringing Miss
Grantly with you.”
Lady Lufton uttered some pretty little speech, during which Dr.
Thorne came up and shook hands with her; as did also Frank Gresham
and his wife. There was a county acquaintance between the Framley
people and the Greshamsbury people, and therefore there was a little
general conversation before Lady Lufton passed out of the small
room into what Mrs. Proudie would have called the noble suite of
apartments. “Papa will be here,” said Miss Grantly; “at least so I
understand. I have not seen him yet myself.”
“Oh, yes, he has promised me,” said Miss Dunstable; “and the
archdeacon, I know, will keep his word. I should by no means have the
proper ecclesiastical balance without him.”
“Papa always does keep his word,” said Miss Grantly, in a tone
that was almost severe. She had not at all understood poor Miss
Dunstable’s little joke, or at any rate she was too dignified to
respond to it.
“I understand that old Sir John is to accept the Chiltern Hundreds
at once,” said Lady Lufton, in a half whisper to Frank Gresham. Lady
Lufton had always taken a keen interest in the politics of East
Barsetshire, and was now desirous of expressing her satisfaction that
a Gresham should again sit for the county. The Greshams had been old
county members in Barsetshire, time out of mind.
“Oh, yes; I believe so,” said Frank, blushing. He was still young
enough to feel almost ashamed of putting himself forward for such
high honours.
“There will be no contest, of course,” said Lady Lufton,
confidentially. “There seldom is in East Barsetshire, I am happy to
say. But if there were, every tenant at Framley would vote on the
right side; I can assure you of that. Lord Lufton was saying so to me
only this morning.”
Frank Gresham made a pretty little speech in reply, such as young
sucking politicians are expected to make; and this, with sundry other
small courteous murmurings, detained the Lufton party for a minute or
two in the ante-chamber. In the meantime the world was pressing on
and passing through to the four or five large reception-rooms—the
noble suite, which was already piercing poor Mrs. Proudie’s heart
with envy to the very core. “These are the sort of rooms,” she said
to herself unconsciously, “which ought to be provided by the country
for the use of its bishops.”
“But the people are not brought enough together,” she said to her
lord.
“No, no; I don’t think they are,” said the bishop.
“And that is so essential for a conversazione,” continued Mrs.
Proudie. “Now in Gloucester Place—.” But we will not record all
her adverse criticisms, as Lady Lufton is waiting for us in the
ante-room.
And now another arrival of moment had taken place;—an arrival
indeed of very great moment. To tell the truth, Miss Dunstable’s
heart had been set upon having two special persons; and though
no stone had been left unturned,—no stone which could be turned
with discretion,—she was still left in doubt as to both these two
wondrous potentates. At the very moment of which we are now speaking,
light and airy as she appeared to be—for it was her character to be
light and airy—her mind was torn with doubts. If the wished-for two
would come, her evening would be thoroughly successful; but if not,
all her trouble would have been thrown away, and the thing would
have been a failure; and there were circumstances connected with the
present assembly which made Miss Dunstable very anxious that she
should not fail. That the two great ones of the earth were Tom Towers
of the _Jupiter_, and the Duke of Omnium, need hardly be expressed in
words.
And now, at this very moment, as Lady Lufton was making her civil
speeches to young Gresham, apparently in no hurry to move on, and
while Miss Dunstable was endeavouring to whisper something into the
doctor’s ear, which would make him feel himself at home in this new
world, a sound was heard which made that lady know that half her wish
had at any rate been granted to her. A sound was heard—but only by
her own and one other attentive pair of ears. Mrs. Harold Smith had
also caught the name, and knew that the duke was approaching.
There was great glory and triumph in this; but why had his grace come
at so unchancy a moment? Miss Dunstable had been fully aware of the
impropriety of bringing Lady Lufton and the Duke of Omnium into the
same house at the same time; but when she had asked Lady Lufton, she
had been led to believe that there was no hope of obtaining the duke;
and then, when that hope had dawned upon her, she had comforted
herself with the reflection that the two suns, though they might for
some few minutes be in the same hemisphere, could hardly be expected
to clash, or come across each other’s orbits. Her rooms were large
and would be crowded; the duke would probably do little more than
walk through them once, and Lady Lufton would certainly be surrounded
by persons of her own class. Thus Miss Dunstable had comforted
herself. But now all things were going wrong, and Lady Lufton would
find herself in close contiguity to the nearest representative of
Satanic agency, which, according to her ideas, was allowed to walk
this nether English world of ours. Would she scream? or indignantly
retreat out of the house?—or would she proudly raise her head, and
with outstretched hand and audible voice, boldly defy the devil and
all his works? In thinking of these things as the duke approached
Miss Dunstable almost lost her presence of mind.
But Mrs. Harold Smith did not lose hers. “So here at last is the
duke,” she said, in a tone intended to catch the express attention of
Lady Lufton.
Mrs. Smith had calculated that there might still be time for her
ladyship to pass on and avoid the interview. But Lady Lufton, if she
heard the words, did not completely understand them. At any rate
they did not convey to her mind at the moment the meaning they were
intended to convey. She paused to whisper a last little speech to
Frank Gresham, and then looking round, found that the gentleman who
was pressing against her dress was—the Duke of Omnium!
On this great occasion, when the misfortune could no longer be
avoided, Miss Dunstable was by no means beneath herself or her
character. She deplored the calamity, but she now saw that it was
only left to her to make the best of it. The duke had honoured her
by coming to her house, and she was bound to welcome him, though in
doing so she should bring Lady Lufton to her last gasp.
“Duke,” she said, “I am greatly honoured by this kindness on the part
of your grace. I hardly expected that you would be so good to me.”
“The goodness is all on the other side,” said the duke, bowing over
her hand.
And then in the usual course of things this would have been all. The
duke would have walked on and shown himself, would have said a word
or two to Lady Hartletop, to the bishop, to Mr. Gresham, and such
like, and would then have left the rooms by another way, and quietly
escaped. This was the duty expected from him, and this he would have
done, and the value of the party would have been increased thirty per
cent. by such doing; but now, as it was, the news-mongers of the West
End were likely to get much more out of him.
Circumstances had so turned out that he had absolutely been pressed
close against Lady Lufton, and she, when she heard the voice, and was
made positively acquainted with the fact of the great man’s presence
by Miss Dunstable’s words, turned round quickly, but still with much
feminine dignity, removing her dress from the contact. In doing this
she was brought absolutely face to face with the duke, so that each
could not but look full at the other. “I beg your pardon,” said the
duke. They were the only words that had ever passed between them,
nor have they spoken to each other since; but simple as they were,
accompanied by the little by-play of the speakers, they gave rise
to a considerable amount of ferment in the fashionable world. Lady
Lufton, as she retreated back on to Dr. Easyman, curtseyed low;
she curtseyed low and slowly, and with a haughty arrangement of
her drapery that was all her own; but the curtsey, though it was
eloquent, did not say half so much,—did not reprobate the habitual
iniquities of the duke with a voice nearly as potent as that which
was expressed in the gradual fall of her eye and the gradual pressure
of her lips. When she commenced her curtsey she was looking full
in her foe’s face. By the time that she had completed it her eyes
were turned upon the ground, but there was an ineffable amount of
scorn expressed in the lines of her mouth. She spoke no word, and
retreated, as modest virtue and feminine weakness must ever retreat,
before barefaced vice and virile power; but nevertheless she was held
by all the world to have had the best of the encounter. The duke,
as he begged her pardon, wore in his countenance that expression of
modified sorrow which is common to any gentleman who is supposed
by himself to have incommoded a lady. But over and above this,—or
rather under it,—there was a slight smile of derision, as though
it were impossible for him to look upon the bearing of Lady Lufton
without some amount of ridicule. All this was legible to eyes so
keen as those of Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Harold Smith, and the duke
was known to be a master of this silent inward sarcasm; but even by
them,—by Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Harold Smith,—it was admitted that
Lady Lufton had conquered. When her ladyship again looked up, the
duke had passed on; she then resumed the care of Miss Grantly’s hand,
and followed in among the company.
[Illustration: Lady Lufton and the Duke of Omnium.]
“That is what I call unfortunate,” said Miss Dunstable, as soon as
both belligerents had departed from the field of battle. “The fates
sometimes will be against one.”
“But they have not been at all against you here,” said Mrs. Harold
Smith. “If you could arrive at her ladyship’s private thoughts
to-morrow morning, you would find her to be quite happy in having
met the duke. It will be years before she has done boasting of her
triumph, and it will be talked of by the young ladies of Framley for
the next three generations.”
The Gresham party, including Dr. Thorne, had remained in the
ante-chamber during the battle. The whole combat did not occupy above
two minutes, and the three of them were hemmed off from escape by
Lady Lufton’s retreat into Dr. Easyman’s lap; but now they, too,
essayed to pass on.
“What, you will desert me,” said Miss Dunstable. “Very well; but I
shall find you out by-and-by. Frank, there is to be some dancing in
one of the rooms,—just to distinguish the affair from Mrs. Proudie’s
conversazione. It would be stupid, you know, if all conversaziones
were alike; wouldn’t it? So I hope you will go and dance.”
“There will, I presume, be another variation at feeding time,” said
Mrs. Harold Smith.
“Oh, yes; certainly; I am the most vulgar of all wretches in
that respect. I do love to set people eating and drinking.—Mr.
Supplehouse, I am delighted to see you; but do tell me—” and then
she whispered with great energy into the ear of Mr. Supplehouse, and
Mr. Supplehouse again whispered into her ear. “You think he will,
then?” said Miss Dunstable.
Mr. Supplehouse assented; he did think so; but he had no warrant for
stating the circumstance as a fact. And then he passed on, hardly
looking at Mrs. Harold Smith as he passed.
“What a hang-dog countenance he has,” said that lady.
“Ah! you’re prejudiced, my dear, and no wonder; as for myself I
always liked Supplehouse. He means mischief; but then mischief is his
trade, and he does not conceal it. If I were a politician I should as
soon think of being angry with Mr. Supplehouse for turning against me
as I am now with a pin for pricking me. It’s my own awkwardness, and
I ought to have known how to use the pin more craftily.”
“But you must detest a man who professes to stand by his party, and
then does his best to ruin it.”
“So many have done that, my dear; and with much more success than Mr.
Supplehouse! All is fair in love and war,—why not add politics to
the list? If we could only agree to do that, it would save us from
such a deal of heartburning, and would make none of us a bit the
worse.”
Miss Dunstable’s rooms, large as they were—“a noble suite of
rooms certainly, though perhaps a little too—too—too scattered,
we will say, eh, bishop?”—were now nearly full, and would have
been inconveniently crowded, were it not that many who came only
remained for half-an-hour or so. Space, however, had been kept for
the dancers—much to Mrs. Proudie’s consternation. Not that she
disapproved of dancing in London, as a rule; but she was indignant
that the laws of a conversazione, as re-established by herself in the
fashionable world, should be so violently infringed.
“Conversaziones will come to mean nothing,” she said to the bishop,
putting great stress on the latter word, “nothing at all, if they are
to be treated in this way.”
“No, they won’t; nothing in the least,” said the bishop.
“Dancing may be very well in its place,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“I have never objected to it myself; that is, for the laity,” said
the bishop.
“But when people profess to assemble for higher objects,” said Mrs.
Proudie, “they ought to act up to their professions.”
“Otherwise they are no better than hypocrites,” said the bishop.
“A spade should be called a spade,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Decidedly,” said the bishop, assenting.
“And when I undertook the trouble and expense of introducing
conversaziones,” continued Mrs. Proudie, with an evident feeling that
she had been ill-used, “I had no idea of seeing the word so—so—so
misinterpreted;” and then observing certain desirable acquaintances
at the other side of the room, she went across, leaving the bishop to
fend for himself.
Lady Lufton, having achieved her success, passed on to the dancing,
whither it was not probable that her enemy would follow her, and she
had not been there very long before she was joined by her son. Her
heart at the present moment was not quite satisfied at the state of
affairs with reference to Griselda. She had gone so far as to tell
her young friend what were her own wishes; she had declared her
desire that Griselda should become her daughter-in-law; but in answer
to this Griselda herself had declared nothing. It was, to be sure,
no more than natural that a young lady so well brought up as Miss
Grantly should show no signs of a passion till she was warranted in
showing them by the proceedings of the gentleman; but notwithstanding
this—fully aware as she was of the propriety of such reticence—Lady
Lufton did think that to her Griselda might have spoken some word
evincing that the alliance would be satisfactory to her. Griselda,
however, had spoken no such word, nor had she uttered a syllable to
show that she would accept Lord Lufton if he did offer. Then again
she had uttered no syllable to show that she would not accept him;
but, nevertheless, although she knew that the world had been talking
about her and Lord Dumbello, she stood up to dance with the future
marquess on every possible occasion. All this did give annoyance
to Lady Lufton, who began to bethink herself that if she could not
quickly bring her little plan to a favourable issue, it might be well
for her to wash her hands of it. She was still anxious for the match
on her son’s account. Griselda would, she did not doubt, make a good
wife; but Lady Lufton was not so sure as she once had been that
she herself would be able to keep up so strong a feeling for her
daughter-in-law as she had hitherto hoped to do.
“Ludovic, have you been here long?” she said, smiling as she always
did smile when her eyes fell upon her son’s face.
“This instant arrived; and I hurried on after you, as Miss Dunstable
told me that you were here. What a crowd she has! Did you see Lord
Brock?”
“I did not observe him.”
“Or Lord De Terrier? I saw them both in the centre room.”
“Lord De Terrier did me the honour of shaking hands with me as I
passed through.”
“I never saw such a mixture of people. There is Mrs. Proudie going
out of her mind because you are all going to dance.”
“The Miss Proudies dance,” said Griselda Grantly.
“But not at conversaziones. You don’t see the difference. And I saw
Spermoil there, looking as pleased as Punch. He had quite a circle of
his own round him, and was chattering away as though he were quite
accustomed to the wickednesses of the world.”
“There certainly are people here whom one would not have wished to
meet, had one thought of it,” said Lady Lufton, mindful of her late
engagement.
“But it must be all right, for I walked up the stairs with the
archdeacon. That is an absolute proof, is it not, Miss Grantly?”
“I have no fears. When I am with your mother I know I must be safe.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Lord Lufton, laughing. “Mother, you
hardly know the worst of it yet. Who is here, do you think?”
“I know whom you mean; I have seen him,” said Lady Lufton, very
quietly.
“We came across him just at the top of the stairs,” said Griselda,
with more animation in her face than ever Lord Lufton had seen there
before.
“What; the duke?”
“Yes, the duke,” said Lady Lufton. “I certainly should not have come
had I expected to be brought in contact with that man. But it was an
accident, and on such an occasion as this it could not be helped.”
Lord Lufton at once perceived, by the tone of his mother’s voice and
by the shades of her countenance that she had absolutely endured some
personal encounter with the duke, and also that she was by no means
so indignant at the occurrence as might have been expected. There she
was, still in Miss Dunstable’s house, and expressing no anger as to
Miss Dunstable’s conduct. Lord Lufton could hardly have been more
surprised had he seen the duke handing his mother down to supper; he
said, however, nothing further on the subject.
“Are you going to dance, Ludovic?” said Lady Lufton.
“Well, I am not sure that I do not agree with Mrs. Proudie in
thinking that dancing would contaminate a conversazione. What are
your ideas, Miss Grantly?”
Griselda was never very good at a joke, and imagined that Lord Lufton
wanted to escape the trouble of dancing with her. This angered her.
For the only species of love-making, or flirtation, or sociability
between herself as a young lady, and any other self as a young
gentleman, which recommended itself to her taste, was to be found in
the amusement of dancing. She was altogether at variance with Mrs.
Proudie on this matter, and gave Miss Dunstable great credit for her
innovation. In society Griselda’s toes were more serviceable to her
than her tongue, and she was to be won by a rapid twirl much more
probably than by a soft word. The offer of which she would approve
would be conveyed by two all but breathless words during a spasmodic
pause in a waltz; and then as she lifted up her arm to receive the
accustomed support at her back, she might just find power enough to
say, “You—must ask—papa.” After that she would not care to have the
affair mentioned till everything was properly settled.
“I have not thought about it,” said Griselda, turning her face away
from Lord Lufton.
It must not, however, be supposed that Miss Grantly had not thought
about Lord Lufton, or that she had not considered how great might be
the advantage of having Lady Lufton on her side if she made up her
mind that she did wish to become Lord Lufton’s wife. She knew well
that now was her time for a triumph, now in this very first season of
her acknowledged beauty; and she knew also that young, good-looking
bachelor lords do not grow on hedges like blackberries. Had Lord
Lufton offered to her, she would have accepted him at once without
any remorse as to the greater glories which might appertain to a
future Marchioness of Hartletop. In that direction she was not
without sufficient wisdom. But then Lord Lufton had not offered
to her, nor given any signs that he intended to do so; and to
give Griselda Grantly her due, she was not a girl to make a first
overture. Neither had Lord Dumbello offered; but he had given
signs,—dumb signs, such as birds give to each other, quite as
intelligible as verbal signs to a girl who preferred the use of her
toes to that of her tongue.
“I have not thought about it,” said Griselda, very coldly, and at
that moment a gentleman stood before her and asked her hand for the
next dance. It was Lord Dumbello; and Griselda, making no reply
except by a slight bow, got up and put her hand within her partner’s
arm.
“Shall I find you here, Lady Lufton, when we have done?” she said;
and then started off among the dancers. When the work before one is
dancing the proper thing for a gentleman to do is, at any rate, to
ask a lady; this proper thing Lord Lufton had omitted, and now the
prize was taken away from under his very nose.
There was clearly an air of triumph about Lord Dumbello as he walked
away with the beauty. The world had been saying that Lord Lufton was
to marry her, and the world had also been saying that Lord Dumbello
admired her. Now this had angered Lord Dumbello, and made him feel
as though he walked about, a mark of scorn, as a disappointed suitor.
Had it not been for Lord Lufton, perhaps he would not have cared so
much for Griselda Grantly; but circumstances had so turned out that
he did care for her, and felt it to be incumbent upon him as the
heir to a marquisate to obtain what he wanted, let who would have a
hankering after the same article. It is in this way that pictures are
so well sold at auctions; and Lord Dumbello regarded Miss Grantly
as being now subject to the auctioneer’s hammer, and conceived that
Lord Lufton was bidding against him. There was, therefore, an air
of triumph about him as he put his arm round Griselda’s waist and
whirled her up and down the room in obedience to the music.
Lady Lufton and her son were left together looking at each other.
Of course he had intended to ask Griselda to dance, but it cannot
be said that he very much regretted his disappointment. Of course
also Lady Lufton had expected that her son and Griselda would stand
up together, and she was a little inclined to be angry with her
_protégée_.
“I think she might have waited a minute,” said Lady Lufton.
“But why, mother? There are certain things for which no one ever
waits: to give a friend, for instance, the first passage through a
gate out hunting, and such like. Miss Grantly was quite right to take
the first that offered.”
Lady Lufton had determined to learn what was to be the end of this
scheme of hers. She could not have Griselda always with her, and if
anything were to be arranged it must be arranged now, while both of
them were in London. At the close of the season Griselda would return
to Plumstead, and Lord Lufton would go—nobody as yet knew where. It
would be useless to look forward to further opportunities. If they
did not contrive to love each other now, they would never do so. Lady
Lufton was beginning to fear that her plan would not work, but she
made up her mind that she would learn the truth then and there,—at
least as far as her son was concerned.
“Oh, yes; quite so;—if it is equal to her with which she dances,”
said Lady Lufton.
“Quite equal, I should think—unless it be that Dumbello is
longer-winded than I am.”
“I am sorry to hear you speak of her in that way, Ludovic.”
“Why sorry, mother?”
“Because I had hoped—that you and she would have liked each other.”
This she said in a serious tone of voice, tender and sad, looking up
into his face with a plaintive gaze, as though she knew that she were
asking of him some great favour.
“Yes, mother, I have known that you have wished that.”
“You have known it, Ludovic!”
“Oh, dear, yes; you are not at all sharp at keeping your secrets
from me. And, mother, at one time, for a day or so, I thought that I
could oblige you. You have been so good to me, that I would almost do
anything for you.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said, deprecating his praise, and the sacrifice
which he seemed to offer of his own hopes and aspirations. “I would
not for worlds have you do so for my sake. No mother ever had a
better son, and my only ambition is for your happiness.”
“But, mother, she would not make me happy. I was mad enough for a
moment to think that she could do so—for a moment I did think so.
There was one occasion on which I would have asked her to take me,
but—”
“But what, Ludovic?”
“Never mind; it passed away; and now I shall never ask her. Indeed
I do not think she would have me. She is ambitious, and flying at
higher game than I am. And I must say this for her, that she knows
well what she is doing, and plays her cards as though she had been
born with them in her hand.”
“You will never ask her?”
“No, mother; had I done so, it would have been for love of you—only
for love of you.”
“I would not for worlds that you should do that.”
“Let her have Dumbello; she will make an excellent wife for him, just
the wife that he will want. And you, you will have been so good to
her in assisting her to such a matter.”
“But, Ludovic, I am so anxious to see you settled.”
“All in good time, mother!”
“Ah, but the good time is passing away. Years run so very quickly. I
hope you think about marrying, Ludovic.”
“But, mother, what if I brought you a wife that you did not approve?”
“I will approve of any one that you love; that is—”
“That is, if you love her also; eh, mother?”
“But I rely with such confidence on your taste. I know that you can
like no one that is not lady-like and good.”
“Lady-like and good! Will that suffice?” said he, thinking of Lucy
Robarts.
“Yes; it will suffice, if you love her. I don’t want you to care for
money. Griselda will have a fortune that would have been convenient;
but I do not wish you to care for that.” And thus, as they stood
together in Miss Dunstable’s crowded room, the mother and son settled
between themselves that the Lufton-Grantly alliance treaty was not
to be ratified. “I suppose I must let Mrs. Grantly know,” said Lady
Lufton to herself, as Griselda returned to her side. There had
not been above a dozen words spoken between Lord Dumbello and his
partner, but that young lady also had now fully made up her mind that
the treaty above mentioned should never be brought into operation.
We must go back to our hostess, whom we should not have left for so
long a time, seeing that this chapter is written to show how well
she could conduct herself in great emergencies. She had declared
that after awhile she would be able to leave her position near the
entrance door, and find out her own peculiar friends among the crowd;
but the opportunity for doing so did not come till very late in the
evening. There was a continuation of arrivals; she was wearied to
death with making little speeches, and had more than once declared
that she must depute Mrs. Harold Smith to take her place.
That lady stuck to her through all her labours with admirable
constancy, and made the work bearable. Without some such constancy
on a friend’s part, it would have been unbearable. And it must
be acknowledged that this was much to the credit of Mrs. Harold
Smith. Her own hopes with reference to the great heiress had all
been shattered, and her answer had been given to her in very plain
language. But, nevertheless, she was true to her friendship, and was
almost as willing to endure fatigue on the occasion as though she had
a sister-in-law’s right in the house.
At about one o’clock her brother came. He had not yet seen Miss
Dunstable since the offer had been made, and had now with difficulty
been persuaded by his sister to show himself.
“What can be the use?” said he. “The game is up with me
now;”—meaning, poor, ruined ne’er-do-well, not only that that game
with Miss Dunstable was up, but that the great game of his whole life
was being brought to an uncomfortable termination.
“Nonsense,” said his sister. “Do you mean to despair because a man
like the Duke of Omnium wants his money? What has been good security
for him will be good security for another;” and then Mrs. Harold
Smith made herself more agreeable than ever to Miss Dunstable.
When Miss Dunstable was nearly worn out, but was still endeavouring
to buoy herself up by a hope of the still-expected great arrival—for
she knew that the hero would show himself only at a very late hour
if it were to be her good fortune that he showed himself at all—Mr.
Sowerby walked up the stairs. He had schooled himself to go through
this ordeal with all the cool effrontery which was at his command;
but it was clearly to be seen that all his effrontery did not stand
him in sufficient stead, and that the interview would have been
embarrassing had it not been for the genuine good-humour of the lady.
“Here is my brother,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, showing by the
tremulousness of the whisper that she looked forward to the meeting
with some amount of apprehension.
“How do you do, Mr. Sowerby?” said Miss Dunstable, walking almost
into the doorway to welcome him. “Better late than never.”
“I have only just got away from the House,” said he, as he gave her
his hand.
“Oh, I know well that you are _sans reproche_ among senators;—as Mr.
Harold Smith is _sans peur_;—eh, my dear?”
“I must confess that you have contrived to be uncommonly severe upon
them both,” said Mrs. Harold, laughing; “and as regards poor Harold,
most undeservedly so: Nathaniel is here, and may defend himself.”
“And no one is better able to do so on all occasions. But, my dear
Mr. Sowerby, I am dying of despair. Do you think he’ll come?”
“He? who?”
“You stupid man—as if there were more than one he! There were two,
but the other has been.”
“Upon my word, I don’t understand,” said Mr. Sowerby, now again at
his ease. “But can I do anything? shall I go and fetch any one? Oh,
Tom Towers! I fear I can’t help you. But here he is at the foot of
the stairs!” And then Mr. Sowerby stood back with his sister to make
way for the great representative man of the age.
“Angels and ministers of grace, assist me!” said Miss Dunstable. “How
on earth am I to behave myself? Mr. Sowerby, do you think that I
ought to kneel down? My dear, will he have a reporter at his back
in the royal livery?” And then Miss Dunstable advanced two or three
steps—not into the doorway, as she had done for Mr. Sowerby—put out
her hand, and smiled her sweetest on Mr. Towers, of the _Jupiter_.
“Mr. Towers,” she said, “I am delighted to have this opportunity of
seeing you in my own house.”
“Miss Dunstable, I am immensely honoured by the privilege of being
here,” said he.
“The honour done is all conferred on me,” and she bowed and curtseyed
with very stately grace. Each thoroughly understood the badinage of
the other; and then, in a few moments, they were engaged in very easy
conversation.
“By-the-by, Sowerby, what do you think of this threatened
dissolution?” said Tom Towers.
“We are all in the hands of Providence,” said Mr. Sowerby, striving
to take the matter without any outward show of emotion. But the
question was one of terrible import to him, and up to this time he
had heard of no such threat. Nor had Mrs. Harold Smith, nor Miss
Dunstable, nor had a hundred others who now either listened to the
vaticinations of Mr. Towers, or to the immediate report made of
them. But it is given to some men to originate such tidings, and the
performance of the prophecy is often brought about by the authority
of the prophet. On the following morning the rumour that there would
be a dissolution was current in all high circles. “They have no
conscience in such matters; no conscience whatever,” said a small
god, speaking of the giants,—a small god, whose constituency was
expensive.
Mr. Towers stood there chatting for about twenty minutes, and then
took his departure without making his way into the room. He had
answered the purpose for which he had been invited, and left Miss
Dunstable in a happy frame of mind.
“I am very glad that he came,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, with an air of
triumph.
“Yes, I am glad,” said Miss Dunstable, “though I am thoroughly
ashamed that I should be so. After all, what good has he done to me
or to any one?” And having uttered this moral reflection, she made
her way into the rooms, and soon discovered Dr. Thorne standing by
himself against the wall.
“Well, doctor,” she said, “where are Mary and Frank? You do not look
at all comfortable, standing here by yourself.”
“I am quite as comfortable as I expected, thank you,” said he. “They
are in the room somewhere, and, as I believe, equally happy.”
“That’s spiteful in you, doctor, to speak in that way. What would you
say if you were called on to endure all that I have gone through this
evening?”
“There is no accounting for tastes, but I presume you like it.”
“I am not so sure of that. Give me your arm, and let me get some
supper. One always likes the idea of having done hard work, and one
always likes to have been successful.”
“We all know that virtue is its own reward,” said the doctor.
“Well, that is something hard upon me,” said Miss Dunstable, as she
sat down to table. “And you really think that no good of any sort can
come from my giving such a party as this?”
“Oh, yes; some people, no doubt, have been amused.”
“It is all vanity in your estimation,” said Miss Dunstable; “vanity
and vexation of spirit. Well; there is a good deal of the latter,
certainly. Sherry, if you please. I would give anything for a glass
of beer, but that is out of the question. Vanity and vexation of
spirit! And yet I meant to do good.”
“Pray, do not suppose that I am condemning you, Miss Dunstable.”
“Ah, but I do suppose it. Not only you, but another also, whose
judgment I care for perhaps more than yours; and that, let me tell
you, is saying a great deal. You do condemn me, Dr. Thorne, and I
also condemn myself. It is not that I have done wrong, but the game
is not worth the candle.”
“Ah; that’s the question.”
“The game is not worth the candle. And yet it was a triumph to have
both the duke and Tom Towers. You must confess that I have not
managed badly.”
Soon after that the Greshams went away, and in an hour’s time or so,
Miss Dunstable was allowed to drag herself to her own bed.
That is the great question to be asked on all such occasions, “Is the
game worth the candle?”