"He says it is nothing serious, only a slight chill; and sends kind
regards and many thanks for kind inquiries, and hopes to be out in a
day or two, when he will call and thank you in person."
This from George Lovegrove to his wife, the latter arrayed in garments
of ceremony and seated upon the Chesterfield sofa awaiting guests. It
was her afternoon at-home.
"Well, I'm sure I hope it is no more than that, Georgie," she answered
comfortably. "Chills are always going about in November, and very often
gentlemen encourage them--especially bachelors--by not changing into
their winter vests and pants early enough. A great deal of illness is
contracted that way."
Here Serena rustled audibly. She stood by the window, holding the lace
curtain just sufficiently aside to get a narrow and attenuated view of
the fog-enshrouded Green. The outlook was far from inspiriting, and
Serena was keenly interested in the conversation going forward between
her host and hostess. But it was not in her programme to let this
appear. She, while straining her ears to listen, therefore maintained
an air of detachment. The word "pants" was, however, too much for her
fortitude, and she rustled. "Really, Rhoda does use the most dreadfully
unladylike expressions sometimes," she commented inwardly. "She never
seems to remember that everyone is not married, though even if they
were I should hope they would not mention those sort of things. Rhoda
is wanting in refinement. I wonder if George notices that and feels it.
If he does notice it, I think he ought to tell her about it, because--"
But here she fell to listening again, since the said George took up his
parable once more.
"Still, I own I don't like his looks somehow. His face is so thin and
drawn. It reminds me of the time his mother, poor Mrs. Iglesias, died.
I told him, just jocularly, that his appearance surprised me, but he
put it all aside--you know he has a very high aristocratic manner at
times that makes you feel you have been intrusive--and then talked of
other things."
"He has lived too solitary," Mrs. Lovegrove said judicially, "too
solitary, and that tells on any one in middle life. I should never
forgive myself if we left him to mope. You must just try to coax him
over here to stay, Georgie, and I'll nurse him up and humour him, and
fortunately Serena's here, you see, for pleasant company."
Mrs. Lovegrove looked meaningly at her spouse, while the figure at the
window again rustled.
"I am sure you would exert yourself to help cheer poor Mr. Iglesias up,
if he came over to stay, would you not now, Serena?" she inquired
insinuatingly.
"Are you speaking to me, Rhoda?"
"Yes, about Mr. Iglesias coming here to stay."
Serena turned her head and answered over her shoulder.
"Of course you and George are quite at liberty to ask anyone here whom
you like. And if Mrs. Iglesias came I should be perfectly civil to him.
But I should not care, Rhoda, to bind myself to anything more than
that, because I do not find him an easy person to get on with."
She turned to her contemplation of the fog with a renewed assumption of
indifference. George Lovegrove's shiny forehead puckered into little
lines. He looked anxiously at his wife. The good lady, however, laid a
fat forefinger upon her lips and nodded her head at him in the most
archly reassuring manner.
"That's funny," she said, "because Mr. Iglesias is quite the cleverest
of all Georgie's gentlemen friends--except, of course, the dear
vicar--and so I always took for granted anyone like yourself was sure
to get on nicely with him, Serena. Even I hardly ever find him
difficult to talk with."
"I never talk easily to strangers," Serena put in loftily.
"Oh! but you'd hardly call Mr. Iglesias a stranger."
"Yes, I should," Serena declared with emphasis. "I should certainly
call him a stranger. I always call everyone a stranger till I know them
intimately. It is much safer to do so. And it would be absurd to
pretend that I know Mr. Iglesias intimately. You, of course, do, but I
do not. You and George may have seen him frequently since I have been
here, but I have really seen him very seldom, four or five times at the
outside. He has generally appeared to call when I was likely to be out.
I could not help observing that. It may be a coincidence, of course.
But I cannot pretend that I have not thought it rather marked."
Serena had advanced into the centre of the room. She held herself
erect. She enjoyed making a demonstration. "Rhoda may think I am a
cipher," she said to herself, "but she is mistaken. She may think I can
be hoodwinked and used as a mere tool, but I will let her see that I
cannot." She felt daring and dangerous, and her eyes snapped. The
rustling of her skirts and the emphatic tones of her voice aroused the
parrot, which had been dosing on its perch, its head sunk between its
shoulders and its breast-feathers fluffed out into a little green apron
over its grey claws.
"Pollie's own pet girlie," it murmured drowsily, with dry clickings of
its tongue against its beak, the words jolting out in foolish twos and
threes. "Hi! p'liceman--murder! fire! thieves!--there's another jolly
row downstairs."
Poor George Lovegrove gazed in bewilderment from Serena to the parrot,
from the parrot to his wife, and then back to Serena again.
"You do surprise me! And I am more mortified than I can say that you
should have the most distant reason, Serena--or Susan either--ever to
feel the least slighted in this house. You do surprise me--I can't
believe it has been the least intentional on Iglesias' part. But I
would not have had anything of the kind happen for twenty pounds."
"Pray don't apologise, George," Serena cried, "or I shall feel quite
annoyed. Of course everyone has a right to their own preferences; but I
had been led to expect something different. As I say, it may only be a
coincidence. Nothing may have really been meant. Only it has seemed
rather marked. But in any case it has not been your fault, George."
"I am very glad you allow that, Serena," the good creature said humbly.
"Oh! yes. I quite excuse you of any intentional slight, George. I quite
trust you. Still, nothing could be more unpleasant than for me to feel
that my being here put any restriction upon your friends coming to the
house. Of course I know Susan and I move in rather different society
from Rhoda and yourself."
"Yes," he assented hurriedly, agonised as to the wife's feelings--"yes,
yes."
"And so it is quite possible that I may not suit some of your
acquaintances."
"Excuse me," he panted--"no, Serena, I cannot think that."
"I am not sure," she returned argumentatively. "Not at all sure,
George. And nothing could be more unpleasant to me than to feel I was
the least in the way. Of course, I should never have come back if I had
supposed I should be in the way; but Rhoda made such a point of it."
Here the parrot broke forth into prolonged and earpiercing shriekings,
flapping its wings violently and nearly tumbled backwards off its perch.
"Throw a handkerchief over the poor bird's cage, Georgie dear," cried
Mrs. Lovegrove from the sofa. Her face was red. She had become
distressingly hot and flustered.--"And just as I was flattering myself
it was all turning out so nicely, too," she said to herself.--"No, not
your own, Georgie dear"--this aloud--"you may need it later. The red
bandana out of the right-hand corner of the top drawer of the
work-table."
"I think it would be much simpler for me to go," Serena continued, her
voice pitched in a high key to combat the cries of the parrot and the
rattle of the table drawer, which George Lovegrove in his present state
of agitation found it impossible to shut with accuracy and despatch.
"Of course, it may inconvenience Susan to have me return sooner than
she expected. She is away speaking at a number of missionary meetings
in the North. And the maids will be on board wages, and the
drawing-room furniture will have been put into holland covers. She
counted on my staying here till I go to my cousin, Lady Samuelson, in
Ladbroke Square, the third week in December. But, of course, all that
must be arranged. I can give up my visit. Lady Samuelson will be
annoyed, and I don't know what excuse I can make to her. Still, I think
I had really much better go; and then you can have Mr. Iglesias, or any
other of your and Rhoda's friends, to stop here without my feeling that
I am in the way. Nothing could be more odious to me than feeling I was
encroaching or forcing myself upon you. Mamma would never have
countenanced such behaviour. It is the sort of thing we were always
brought up to have the greatest horror of. It is a thing I never have
done and never could do. I hope you understand that, George. Nothing
could be further from my thoughts when I accepted Rhoda's invitation
to----"
"Miss Hart, please, ma'am," the little house-parlour-maid trumpeted,
her face very pink from the exertion of attracting her mistress's
attention and making herself heard. Mrs. Lovegrove bounced up from the
sofa. Usually, it must be allowed, the great Eliza was rather at a
discount. Now she was astonishingly welcome. Her hostess's greeting,
though silent, was effusively cordial. She clutched at her guest's hand
as one in imminent risk of drowning at a lifebelt. The said guest was
in her sprightliest humour. She was also in a scarlet flannel blouse
thickly powdered with gradated black discs. This, in conjunction with
purple chrysanthemums in a black hat, her tawny hair and freckled
complexion, did not constitute a wholly delicious scheme of colour; but
to this fact Mrs. Lovegrove was supremely indifferent.
"Good-afternoon," Miss Hart said in a stage whisper, glancing towards
Serena, still bright-eyed and erect. "Don't let me interrupt, pray. My
conversation will keep. I will just sit and listen."
"Listen to what?" Serena cried, almost inarticulate with indignation.
"Why, to your recitation. Our gentlemen often treat us to a little in
that line of an evening, Mrs. Lovegrove, after dinner. I dote on
recitation. Pieces of a comic nature specially, when well delivered."
"I should never dream of reciting," Serena declared heatedly.
"No, really now," Miss Hart returned. "That seems quite a pity. It is
such a pleasant occupation for a dull afternoon like this, do you not
think so, Miss Lovegrove? I declare I was quite sure, from the moment I
came into the hall--while I was taking off my waterproof--that your
cousin was giving you a little entertainment of that kind, Mr.
Lovegrove. Her voice was running up and down in such a very telling
manner."
If glances could scorch, Miss Hart would unquestionably have been
reduced to a cinder, for rage possessed Serena. She had worked herself
up into a fine fume of anger over purely imaginary injuries. And now,
that Eliza Hart, of all people in the world, should intervene with
suggestions of comic recitations!
"Detestable person!" Serena said to herself. "Her conduct is positively
outrageous. Of course she knew perfectly well I was doing nothing of
the kind. Really, I believe anybody would feel her manner quite
insulting. I wonder how George and Rhoda can tolerate her. It shows
George has deteriorated much that he should tolerate her. I am not so
surprised at Rhoda. Of course she never had good taste. I think I ought
to go to my room. That would mark my displeasure. But then she may have
come on purpose to say something particular. I wonder if she has done
so? Of course if she has, she wants to get rid of me. That is her
object. But she is mistaken if she thinks that I shall gratify her. I
think I owe it to myself to make sure exactly what is going on. I will
certainly stay. That will show her I am on the watch."
During this protracted, though silent, colloquy, Serena had remained
standing in the middle of the room. Now she rustled back to the window,
held aside the lace curtain and resumed her contemplation of the
fog-enshrouded Green. Good George Lovegrove gazed after her in deep
dejection and perplexity. Somebody, it appeared to him, had been
extremely unreasonable and disagreeable; but who that somebody was for
the very life of him he could not tell. The wife was out of the
question; while to suppose it Serena approached high treason. Still he
was very sure it could not be that most scrupulously courteous
personage Dominic Iglesias. There remained himself--"Yet I wouldn't
knowingly vex a fly," he thought, "and as to vexing Serena! Sometimes
ones does wish females were not quite so sensitive."
Miss Hart, meanwhile, had taken the unaccustomed post of honour beside
her hostess upon the sofa. She was enjoying herself immensely. She had
a conviction of marching to victory.
"Yes," she said, "Mrs. Lovegrove, dear Peachie Porcher asked me just to
run across as she has missed your last two afternoons, lest you should
think her neglectful. I am well aware I am but a poor substitute for
Peachie--no compliments now, Mr. Lovegrove, if you please!"
"Mrs. Porcher is in good health, I trust"--this from Rhoda.
"At present, yes, I am happy to say, thank you. But how long it will
continue," Miss Hart spoke impressively--"at this rate I am sure I
cannot tell."
"Indeed," George Lovegrove inquired anxiously. "You don't tell me so?
Nothing wrong, I trust."
"Well, as I always tell her, her sense of duty amounts almost to a
fault--so unselfish, so conscientious, it brings tears to my eyes often
at times. I hope it is appreciated in the right quarter--I do hope
that, Mr. Lovegrove."
Here Rhoda's bosom heaved with a generous sigh.
"There is much ingratitude in the world, Miss Hart, I fear," she said
pensively.
Her husband looked at her in an anguish of apology--whether for his own
sins or those of others he knew not exactly.
"So there is, Mrs. Lovegrove," Eliza responded warmly. "And nobody is a
more speaking example of that truth than Peachie Porcher. When I think
of all she went through during her married life, and yet so
unsuspicious, so trusting--it is enough to melt an iceberg, that it is,
Mrs. Lovegrove. Now, as I was saying to her only this morning, 'You
must study yourself a little, get out in the air, take a peep at the
shops, and have some amusement.' But her reply is always the
same.--'No, Liz, dear,' she says, 'not at the present time, thank you.
I know the duties of my position as mistress of Cedar Lodge. When any
one of our gentlemen is ailing, my place is at home. I must remain in
the house in case of a sudden emergency. I should not have an easy
moment away from the place,' she says."
Miss Hart looked around upon her hearers demanding approbation and
sympathy.
"Very affecting, is it not?" she inquired.
After a moment's embarrassed silence, George Lovegrove murmured a
suitable, if timid, assent. His wife assumed a bolder attitude. Goaded
by provocations recently received, she went over--temporarily--to the
side of the enemy.
"I always have maintained Mrs. Porcher was full of heart," she
declared, throwing the assertion across the room, much as though it was
a stone, in the direction of the figure at the window.
Serena drew herself up with a rustle.
"I wonder exactly what Rhoda means by that?" she commented inwardly. "I
think it very odd. Of course, she must have some meaning, and I wonder
what it is. She seems to be changing her line. I am glad I stayed. I am
afraid Rhoda is rather deceitful. I excuse George of deceit. I believe
George to be true; but he is sadly influenced by Rhoda. I am rather
sorry for George."
"So she is, Mrs. Lovegrove," Eliza Hart resumed--"Peachie's too full of
heart, as I tell her. She is forever thinking of others and their
comforts. She grudges neither time nor money, does not Peachie. There
is nothing calculating or cheese-paring about her--not enough, I often
think. Fish, sweetbreads, game, poultry, and all of the very
best--where the profits are to come from with a bill of fare like that
passes my powers of arithmetic, and so I point out to her. I hope it is
appreciated--yes, I do hope that, Mr. Lovegrove"--there the speaker
became extremely coy and playful. "A little bird sometimes seems to
twitter to me that it is. And yet I am sure I don't know. The members
of your sex are very misleading, Mr. Lovegrove. Do not perjure yourself
now. You cannot take me in. And a certain gentleman is very close, you
know, and stand-offish. It is not easy to get at his real sentiments,
is it, now?"
Serena laid back her ears, so to speak. "I was quite right to stay,"
she reflected wrathfully.
"I think Mr. Iglesias is unusually considerate, Miss Hart," George
Lovegrove said tentatively. "He is quite sensible of Mrs. Porcher's
kind attentions. But naturally he is very tenacious of upsetting her
household arrangements and giving additional trouble."
"And then the position of a bachelor is delicate, Miss Hart, you must
admit," Mrs. Lovegrove chimed in. "That's what I always tell Georgie.
It may do all very well in their younger days to be unattached, but as
gentlemen get on in life they do need their own private establishments.
I am sure I am sorry for them in chambers, or even in good rooms like
those at Cedar Lodge. For it is not the same as a home, Miss Hart, and
never can be. There must be awkwardnesses on both sides at times,
especially when, it comes to illness."
Then the great Eliza gathered herself together, for it appeared to her
her forecast had been just and that she was indeed marching to victory.
"Yes, there is no denying all that," she said, "and I am more than glad
you see it in that light, Mrs. Lovegrove. Between ourselves, I have
more and more ever since a certain gentleman gave up work in the City.
It would be premature to speak freely; but, just between friends and
under the rose, you being interested in one party and I in the other,
there can be no harm in dropping a hint and ascertaining how the land
lies. Of course if it came to pass, it would be to my own disadvantage,
for I do not know how I should ever bear to part with Peachie Porcher.
Still, I could put myself aside, if I felt it was for her happiness."
"You do surprise me," George Lovegrove exclaimed. He was filled with
consternation, his hair nearly rising on his head. "I had no notion.
Dear me, you fairly take away my breath." He could almost have wept.
"To think of it!" he repeated. "Only to think of it! Miss Hart, you do
surprise me."
"Oh! you must not run away with the notion anything is really settled
yet," she replied. "And I could not say Mrs. Porcher really would, when
it came to the point, after the experiences she had in her first
marriage. She is very reserved, is Peachie. Still, she might. And very
fortunate a certain gentleman would be if she did--it does not take
more than half an eye to see that."
"Dr. Nevington, please, ma'am," announced the parlour-maid, and the
fine clerical voice and clerical presence filled all the room.
Thereupon Serena graciously joined the circle. She was unusually
self-possessed and definite. She embarked in a quite spirited
conversation with the newcomer. And when Eliza Hart, after a few
pleasantries of a parochial tendency with the said newcomer--in whose
favour she had vacated the place of honour upon the sofa--rose to
depart, Serena bowed to her in the most royally distant and superior
manner. Her amiability remained a constant quantity during the rest of
the evening; and when an opportunity occurred of speaking in private to
her cousin, she did so with the utmost cordiality.
"I do hope, George," she said, "you will not think any more of our
little unpleasantness. I can truly say I never bear malice. I own I was
annoyed, for I felt I had not been quite fairly treated by Rhoda. But,
of course, I may have been mistaken. I am quite willing to believe so
and to let bygones be bygones, and stay, as Rhoda pressed me to do,
until I go to my cousin, Lady Samuelson, in December. Of course it
would be more convenient to me in some ways. But I am not thinking of
that. I am thinking of you and Rhoda. I should not like to disappoint
her by leaving her when she wants me to help entertain your friend, Mr.
Iglesias. Of course, I cannot pretend I take easily to strangers. Mamma
was very particular whom we associated with, and so I have always been
unaccustomed to strangers, and I cannot pretend I am partial to making
new acquaintances. Still, I should be very sorry to seem
unaccommodating, or to hurt you and Rhoda by refusing to stay and
assist you."
"Thank you truly, Serena; I am sure you are very kind," the good man
answered. And the best, or the worst, of it was he actually believed he
was speaking the truth!