"I could not write, Rhoda, because of course I could not be sure
beforehand whether, when I came to London, I should really wish to see
you and George again or not." This from Serena, loftily and with
rustlings. "But as Lady Samuelson was driving in this direction to-day,
and offered to drop me here if I could find my own way back, I thought
I had better come, as I knew it was your afternoon at home."
"And I am sure for my part I am very pleased to have you come," Mrs.
Lovegrove replied, leading the way towards the seat of honour upon the
Chesterfield sofa. "I always do hold with letting bygones be bygones,
particularly as between relatives, when there has been any little
unpleasantness. And perhaps your calling will cheer poor Georgie up. He
is very tenacious of your and Susan's affection, is Georgie."
Here the speaker proceeded to swallow rather convulsively, pressing her
handkerchief against her lips.
"Perhaps I should be wiser to keep it all to myself," she added, not
without agitation. "But the sight of you does bring up so much. And I
am sorry to tell you, Serena, things are not as happy as they used to
be in this house."
The office of ministering angel was not, it must be conceded, exactly
native to Serena, her sympathies being restricted, the reverse of
acute. But, at a push, "curiosity has been known to supply the place of
sympathy very passably; and of curiosity Serena had always a large
stock at the service of her friends and acquaintance.
"I wonder why," she therefore observed in reply to her hostess's
concluding remark--"I mean I wonder why things should not be as happy
as they used to be?"
"I trace the commencement of it all to the time when you were visiting
here last November--not that I mean you were in any way to blame--"
Serena interrupted with spirit:
"No, pray do not connect anything which occurred then with me, Rhoda. I
think it would be most misplaced. After all that I have had to go
through I really should have thought it only delicate on your part
never to refer to what took place during my visit. I certainly should
have hesitated about coming here to-day if I had supposed either you or
George would have referred to it.--What dreadfully bad taste of Rhoda!"
she added mentally. "I believe I had better go. That would mark my
displeasure, and teach her to be more guarded with me in future. But
then perhaps she has something to say which I really ought to know.
Perhaps it would be a mistake to go. Perhaps I had better stay. I do
not want to be too harsh with Rhoda."
The truth being that she actually itched to hear more. For, to Serena,
her wholly imaginary love episode with Mr. Iglesias represented the
most vivid of all the very limited experiences of her life. Her
affections had not been engaged, since she possessed no affections in
any vital sense of that word. But she had been flattered and excited.
She had seemed to herself to occupy a most interesting position,
demanding infinite tact. During the months which had elapsed she had
rehearsed the history of every incident, of every hour of intercourse,
with Dominic Iglesias, a thousand times; weighing each word,
discounting every look of his, indulging in unlimited speculation and
analysis, until the proportions of that which had occurred were
magnified beyond all possibility of recognition, let alone of sane
relation to fact. To herself, therefore, Serena had become the heroine
of an elaborate intrigue. This greatly increased her importance in her
own eyes; and, though she was studiously silent regarding the subject
save in indirect allusion, the said self-importance, reacting upon
those about her, gained both for herself and her opinions a degree of
consideration to which she was unaccustomed and which she highly
relished. Never had Serena presented so bold a front to her
philanthropic and very possessive elder sister. Never had she enjoyed
so much attention in the small and rigidly select circle of Slowby
society, in which she and Miss Susan moved. Serena spoke with authority
upon all subjects, on the strength of a purely fictitious affair of the
heart. She is not the first woman who has made capital out of the
non-existent in this kind, nor will she probably be the last!
Nevertheless, she was very far from admitting the great benefit which
Mr. Iglesias had so unconsciously conferred upon her. She regarded
herself as a deeply injured person--irreparably injured, but for her
own diplomacy, admirable caution, knowledge of the world and
self-respect.
"I am well aware it is a trying subject to approach," Mrs. Lovegrove
replied, with praiseworthy mildness. "And I am far from blaming you for
turning from it, Serena. I am sure it has weighed sadly on my mind and
on George's, too. Not that he has said much, but I could see how he
felt; and then a great deal has come out since. That is why I am so
gratified to have you call here to-day, and so will Georgie be. He has
taken it dreadfully to heart finding how we have all been taken in, and
seeing how wrong it must put him with you and with Susan."
"It is very proper that you should say that, Rhoda," the other observed
with condescension. "I think you owe it to me to express regret. I
should have been sorry if George had proved indifferent, for I have
been very careful in what I have told Susan. Of course, I might have
spoken strongly. I think anyone would admit I should have been quite
justified in doing so. But I wished to spare George. Mamma was very
much attached to him, and of course he was constantly with us in old
days, before his marriage."
It was significant of the wife's humble state that she received this
thrust without a murmur.
"Poor Georgie was too upset to tell even me for a long time," she
continued somewhat irrelevantly, "and you may judge by that how badly
he felt. He knew how shocked I should be, and that I should take it as
such an insult to the dear vicar, after all his kindness, that any
friend of ours whom he had talked to in this house should turn
Romanist."
"Who? What?" cried Serena. She had determined to maintain a superior
and impassive attitude, but at this point curiosity became rampant,
refusing further circumlocution or delay.
"Why, Mr. Iglesias, to be sure," Mrs. Lovegrove answered, hardly
restraining evidences of satisfaction. The news was lamentable, no
doubt; but to have it miss fire in the recital of it would have made it
ten times more lamentable still. "And the worst of it was," she
continued, refreshed by the effect upon her hearer, "he kept it dark
for we don't in the least know how long. He mentioned no dates, and
poor Georgie was too upset to ask him. Of course it is well known how
double Romanists are always taught to be--not that I was ever
acquainted with any. You never meet them out, I am glad to think, where
we visit. Still, that Mr. Iglesias, who was quite one of ourselves, as
you may say, so intimate and always appearing the perfect gentleman, so
open and honest--"
"Ah! there you are wrong, Rhoda," the other lady put in with decision,
while making a violent effort to recover her impassivity and
superiority. "You and George may be surprised, but I am not. I always
had my suspicions of Mr. Iglesias. I told you so more than once. At the
time you and George were annoyed. Now you see I was right. I am seldom
mistaken. Even Susan admits I am very observant. After his
extraordinary behaviour to me I should not be surprised at anything
which Mr. Iglesias might do." She paused, breathless but triumphant.
"Have you seen him since all this came out, Rhoda?"
"Oh, no. He has called twice, but fortunately Georgie was out walking.
He goes out walking a great deal now, does Georgie." The speaker heaved
a voluminous sigh. Her satisfaction had been short-lived. "And I told
the girl, if Mr. Iglesias asked for me, to say I was particularly
engaged. He has written to Georgie. I know that--a long letter--but I
have not been asked to read it."
Mrs. Lovegrove pressed her handkerchief against her lips again,
agitation gaining her.
"After all these years of marriage, you know, Serena, it is a very
cutting thing to have any concealment between me and Georgie. I should
not mention it to you but that you were here when it commenced. I never
supposed--no, never, never--there could be any coldness between him and
me. When I have heard others speak of trouble with their husbands, I
have always pitied the poor things from my heart, but held them mainly
responsible. Now I think differently--"
"Miss Eliza Hart, mum." This shrilly from the little house-parlourmaid.
Serena rose as well as her hostess. Superiority counselled departure;
curiosity urged remaining.
"Of course, I should feel justified in staying if Rhoda pressed me to
do so," she said to herself. And Rhoda, in the very act of greeting her
new guest, did press her to do so.
"Surely you are not leaving yet?" she said plaintively.
"It would hurt me not to have you stay to tea, and Georgie would be
sadly disappointed to think he had missed you."
Thus admonished, Serena graciously consented to remain Miss Hart, as
last arrival, being necessarily invited to assume the place of honour
upon the sofa, Serena selected a chair at as great a distance from that
historic article of furniture as the exigencies of conversation
permitted. "I must show her that I stay not to see her, but solely on
Georgie's account," she commented inwardly. "I have been very cold in
manner. I think she must have observed that."
But the great Eliza was in a militant humour, not easily abashed. She
had called with intentions, in the interests of which she plunged
volubly into talk.
"You will excuse my coming without Peachie Porcher, Mrs. Lovegrove,"
she began. "She was all anxiety to come, too, fearing you might think
her neglectful. But I prevented it. She overrates her strength, does
Peachie, and to-day her neuralgia is cruel. 'I'll run across and
account for you,' I said to her. 'You just lie down and take a nap, and
let the housemaid bring you up a little something with your tea, and
take it early.' 'It's not more nourishment I require, but less worry,
Liz dear,' she said. And so it is, Mrs. Lovegrove."
"We all have our troubles, Miss Hart, and often unsuspected ones which
call for silence."
The wife's large cheeks quivered ominously, while Serena rustled--but
whether in sympathetic agreement with the sentiments expressed by the
last speaker, or in protest against the presence of the former one, it
would be difficult to determine.
"I wonder whether that is not best, Rhoda--I mean I wonder whether it
is not best to be silent," she remarked reflectively. "I think people
are not usually half cautious enough what they tell. So many
disagreeables can be avoided if you are really on your guard. Mamma
impressed that upon us when we were children. I am very careful, but I
often think Susan is hardly careful enough. Most troubles arise through
trusting other people too much."
"And that's poor darling Peachie all over," Miss Hart declared, with a
fine appreciation of opportunity. "Too great trustfulness has been her
worst fault, as I always tell her, the generous pet. Not that all our
gentlemen are ungrateful, Mrs. Lovegrove. I would not have you suppose
that. Poor Mr. Smyth, for instance, whom I'm afraid I have accused of
being very surly and bearish at times, has come out wonderfully lately.
But it must be a hard nature, indeed, which Peachie's influence would
not soften. One such nature I am acquainted with." Eliza paused,
looking from one to other of her hearers with much meaning. "But it is
not the case with poor Mr. Smyth. He has yielded. Then there is the tie
of an unfortunate domestic past between him and Peachie, which helps to
bring them together.--Of course that means nothing to you, Mrs.
Lovegrove."
The lady addressed swallowed convulsively.
"But all are not blessed with such good fortune as yours," the great
Eliza continued. "Mr. Smyth has been very open with Peachie recently.
He has some surprising tales to tell, knowing very well all that is
going on in society. And that reminds me of a certain gentleman who
does not live a thousand miles from here. Mr. Smyth has hinted at much
that is very startling in that direction."
The speaker paused again.
"Would it be intrusive to ask whether you have been favoured with much
of Mr. Iglesias' company during the last few weeks, Mrs. Lovegrove?"
she added.
Ruddy mottlings bespread the wife's kindly countenance. Serena moved
slightly upon her chair. She was conscious, of growing excitement.
"Perhaps not quite so much as formerly; but then Mr. Lovegrove has been
out walking most evenings. The warmer weather always causes him to feel
the need of exercise," the excellent woman returned, putting heroic
restraint upon herself. "And I have been very occupied with the spring
cleaning. I make it a duty to look into everything myself, you know,
Miss Hart. Not but what my girls are very good. I think all the talk
about trouble with the servants is very much exaggerated. Our cook,
Fanny, has been with us quite a number of years. Still, I hold it is
well for them to have a mistress's supervision if the cleaning is to be
thorough. If you see to it yourself, then you can have nobody to blame.
And so I have had frequently to deny myself to visitors."
She gave a sigh of relief, trusting she had loyally steered the
conversation into safer channels. But the great Eliza was not thus to
be thwarted.
"I asked on Peachie Porcher's account," she declared, "not on my own,
Mrs. Lovegrove. It is all of less than no consequence to me, except for
the sake of Cedar Lodge, how a certain gentleman spends his time. But
Peachie's interests must be protected. With an establishment such as
ours a good name is everything. 'You cannot be too particular; for any
talk of fastness, and the place must go down,' as she says to me--"
But here, the wife's natural rectitude and sense of justice triumphed
over prejudice and wounded sensibilities.
"I am sure I could never believe anyone would have occasion to accuse
Mr. Iglesias of fastness," she said. "Of course, the change of religion
is dreadful, particularly in one who should have known better, though a
foreigner, having had the advantage of being brought up in England.
Nobody can be more aware of that than myself and Mr. Lovegrove. It has
been a sad grief to us"--her voice quavered--"and no doubt early rising
and fish meals do make a lot of work and unpleasantness in a
house-hold. But as to fastness, well, Miss Hart, I cannot find it in my
conscience to agree to anything as bad as that."
With preternatural solemnity the great Eliza shook her head.
"Seeing is believing, Mrs. Lovegrove," she replied. "And when ladies
call, dressed in the tiptop of the fashion! Very stylish, no doubt, but
not quite the style Peachie Porcher can countenance, circumstanced as
we are with our gentlemen guests. Then there is what Mr. Smyth hinted
at subsequently, just in a friendly way. He did not say he was actually
acquainted with the lady, but intimated that he could say very much
more if he chose. No, Mrs. Lovegrove, I regret to speak, knowing how
long you and a certain gentleman have been acquainted, but there can be
no question Peachie Porcher's interests have been trifled with, and her
affections also."
Here aggressive rustlings on the part of Serena arrested the flow of
Miss Hart's eloquence.
"You spoke, I believe, Miss Lovegrove?" she inquired.
"No, I did not speak," Serena cried.--"Vulgar, designing person, what
presumption!" she cried to herself. "Anyone would feel insulted by her
manner. She thinks she has put me at a disadvantage. But she is
mistaken. I know more than she supposes." She was greatly enraged; for,
unreasonable though it may appear, if trifling were about on the part
of Dominic Iglesias, Serena reserved to herself a monopoly in respect
of it. Few things, perhaps, are more galling to a woman than the
assertion that a Lovelace has been guilty of misleading attentions to
others besides herself. If she is not the solitary object of his
affections, let her at least be the solitary victim of his perfidy. And
that Mrs. Porcher should aspire to share her _role_ of betrayed one
was, to Serena, a piece of unheard-of impertinence. She refused to
bestow further attention upon Miss Hart, and turned haughtily to her
hostess.
"Have you any idea when George will be in, Rhoda? I am quite willing to
wait a reasonable time for him, but I cannot be expected to wait
indefinitely. I must consider Lady Samuelson. It is a long distance to
Ladbroke Square--of course Trimmer's Green is very far out--and I have
to dress for dinner. Everything is very well done at Lady Samuelson's,
and she makes a great point of punctuality. Of course it is no
difficulty to me to be punctual. I was brought up to be so. Mamma was
always extremely particular about our being in time. She said it was
very rude to be late. I think it is rude, and so, of course,
punctuality is quite natural to me. But I do object to being hurried;
and so, unless George is likely to be in almost directly, I really must
go, Rhoda."
"I should be very mortified to have you leave before he comes back. It
would be a sore disappointment to Georgie to find you had been here and
he had missed you," the good creature pleaded.
"And it's something quite new for Mr. Lovegrove to be out on your
at-home day, isn't it?" Eliza put in, not without covert sarcasm. "I
never remember to have known it happen before."
"Mrs. and Miss Ballard, please, mum"--this from the house-parlourmaid.
Mrs. Lovegrove arose with alacrity, retail trade and nonconformity
alike forgiven.
"I am afraid Miss Hart grows very spiteful," she said to herself. "I
wish she would go. I should be vexed to have her outsit Serena.--Well,
Mrs. Ballard, very pleased, I am sure, to see you"--this aloud--"and
your daughter, too. The spring is coming on nicely, is it not? Quite
warm this afternoon, walking? I dare say it is. You and my husband's
cousin, Miss Lovegrove, have met, I believe? Miss Ballard, Miss
Lovegrove.--Are you going, Miss Hart? Kind regards to Mrs. Porcher, and
sincere hopes she may soon lose her neuralgia. Very trying complaint,
Mrs. Ballard, is it not?--and very prevalent, so they tell me, this
year.--Why, you're never going to leave, too, Serena? You'll come
again, or Georgie will be so troubled."
But Serena held out small hope of her reappearance.
"Of course I should be glad to see George, but I could not bind myself
to anything, Rhoda. You see, Lady Samuelson"--the Ballard ladies,
mother and daughter, looked at one another, fluttered and
impressed--"Lady Samuelson," Serena repeated, her voice rising a
little, "has such a number of engagements, and of course if she wishes
to take me with her I cannot refuse. At home she always likes me to
help entertain. I really have very little time to call my own, and so I
should not feel justified in making any promise. Of course it was just
a chance my being able to come to-day. You can tell George I am sorry
not to have seen him. I should like him to know that I am sorry."
"You are very kind, Serena," the other said humbly.
"I think Rhoda has improved," Serena said to herself, as she walked
across Trimmer's Green between the black iron railings. "I think she
has more sense of my position than she did. I wonder whether she thinks
that if Mr. Iglesias had proposed I should have accepted him. Of course
she thinks I was very badly treated. I think her manner shows that.
Certainly she took his part rather against that odious Miss Hart. But I
don't believe she really sided with him. I think she only appeared to
do so to snub Miss Hart. Of course if she had stayed, I should have had
to stay, too. I should have owed it to myself to do so. But, as she
went, there was no object in staying; and it was wiser to seem quite
indifferent about seeing George. I hope he won't attempt to call upon
me at Lady Samuelson's! I should hardly think he would presume to do
that. I must tell the butler, if a gentleman calls, to say I am not at
home. If it was only George it would not so much matter, but I could
not run the chance of having Lady Samuelson and Rhoda meet. It would
not do at all to have Rhoda climbing into society through me. I think
it is too bad to have people make use of you like that. And Rhoda has
no tact. I see I must be on my guard with George and Rhoda. I wonder
whether I had better tell Susan Mr. Iglesias has become a Roman
Catholic? Of course she would think I had had a great escape; but in
any case that does not excuse him. He behaved very badly. I don't
believe for an instant he ever took any notice of Mrs. Porcher. I
believe that is an entire invention. I wonder if the lady who called is
the same lady we saw at the theatre--"
And so on, and so on, all the way home by the Uxbridge Road, and
Netting Hill, and then northward to the august retirement of Lady
Samuelson's large corner house in Ladbroke Square. For a deeply injured
person Serena had really enjoyed herself very much.