LADY LONGRIDGE MEETS HER MATCH.
SUSAN THORLEY had no chance of fulfilling the behest of her lady. Her
offered services were declined with thanks, and speech she had none
with Sir Philip's bride. He liked Thorley, but guessed his mother's
principal object in sending her, so answered—
"I will look after my wife for to-night. She has not been accustomed to
the attendance of a maid, so will miss nothing. All she needs is rest
and sleep, and these she is more likely to get by not seeing any more
fresh faces."
"The sight of one new face has been enough for her, poor dear young
creature," thought the maid, but she did not say it. She only replied,
"I hope you will call me, sir, if I can be of any use."
"I would rather call you than any one, if help were needed," said Sir
Philip; and Thorley, not a little gratified, dropped a respectful
curtsey and withdrew.
"Humph! So that is all you have to tell me?" said Lady Longridge,
when her maid reappeared. "Well, that is something. Not used to the
attendance of a maid! Just as I thought. Philip has married a nobody
for the sake of a pretty face. And to be so foolish at thirty-nine.
Older and madder—older and madder. You can go, Thorley."
Later still, when his young wife was sleeping calmly, Sir Philip joined
his mother in a little sitting-room, which she preferred to any of the
larger apartments used on state occasions. The two were silent for some
minutes; then Sir Philip raised his head, and said—
"I hope you will forgive my apparent want of respect, mother. It was
not intentional, but this whole affair has been so sudden—brought
about, indeed, by such unforeseen circumstances—that I could hardly
help myself."
"If you had been a hot-headed lad of twenty, I could have understood
your conduct. At your age it is incomprehensible—inexcusable, I was
going to say. Put yourself in my place, if you can, and imagine what I
felt on hearing you say, 'This is my wife.' I, your mother, to whom you
had not deigned to send a word of warning."
"You had been so used to my coming home just when the humour seized
me—to my comet-like fashion of appearing and disappearing—that I did
not expect you would be so annoyed at my arriving unannounced."
"Nor am I. It is to your wife's arrival—if this girl be indeed your
wife."
Sir Philip started from his seat in anger. "This taunt is too much even
from you!" he exclaimed. "How dare you?"
"I dare anything. If the words sound harsh, you have brought them on
yourself by your rash act and forgetfulness of the respect you owed me.
What will the world say about Sir Philip Longridge's marriage? Have
you announced it in the papers, or is the world to hear of it through
gossiping servants?"
"I have made no announcement of my marriage to outsiders. You are the
first in England to hear of it. I crossed the Channel to-day, and
hurried to Northbrook with all possible speed. At least, mother, give
me credit for having lost no time in coming to you. If I had known what
I now do, I should have hesitated before bringing my wife home!"
Sir Philip laid a bitter stress on the last word.
There was not much sign of feeling in the reply: "Now you are here you
had better tell me all about it."
But he complied with the half request conveyed in the words, and told
the story of his marriage as briefly as possible.
The father of Florence Winstanley, an enthusiastic traveller like
himself, had met with an accident during a mountain excursion. Sir
Philip found him at a village inn of the poorest description, and in
an out-of-the-world spot, just recovering his senses after many days
spent in delirious ravings or silent unconsciousness. He had watched
over him for weeks, and as soon as the sufferer was fit to be moved,
had travelled with him by easy stages to Geneva, where he had left his
daughter, and only child.
The homecoming was a terrible shock to the girl. Her father and she
were all in all to each other, and in addition to the trial of seeing
him so sadly changed, she soon had the greater one of knowing that
he had only returned to die at home. It was during the last month of
Mr. Winstanley's life that the man of mature years and the girl of
eighteen were drawn together; and Florence became engaged to him who
had first earned her gratitude by his devotion to her father. They
would not have married so soon, but for Mr. Winstanley's wish to place
his darling under the care of a loving husband before he was called
to leave the world. There was no doubt about the affection of the two
for each other, so they were married, and the bride of a week stood by
her father's grave, leaning on the arm of the bridegroom, Sir Philip
Longridge.
The pair lingered no longer than was necessary. There were business
matters to settle, and these completed, they turned their faces
homeward, to meet with the reception already described at Northbrook
Hall.
"You see, mother, I could hardly help myself," added Sir Philip. "We
were going to be married, but the fact of Mr. Winstanley's being on
his death-bed precipitated matters. There was no time to let you know
beforehand, and when the thing was done, why, it seemed so much better
to tell you all about it than to attempt to write. I know you will feel
a little annoyed, but after all you must see that the position was
peculiar, and my poor darling's sad loss and loneliness, to say nothing
of her lovely face and sweet nature, ought to appeal to your motherly
heart."
Lady Longridge's motherly heart! Who had ever heard an appeal to it
before? She turned coldly round and said, "The story is very romantic,
no doubt, but I should hardly have expected the loss, the loneliness,
or the fair face to turn the head of a man close upon forty. I trust
she has something more solid by way of recommendation. A well-stocked
purse, or a goodly dowry in houses and land, would appeal with more
power to my feelings than any of the qualifications you have named."
"Florence has a little property, but she can draw only the income from
it, and that is about two hundred a year."
Lady Longridge fairly hissed out something in reply, but her son could
not distinguish the words. Her face was, however, almost frightful in
its anger, and there was silence for some minutes, because she would
not trust herself to speak, and Sir Philip deemed it best to say
nothing.
"How do you expect to keep up Northbrook?" she asked at last. "You know
your position, and that the paying out of your sisters' fortunes left
you but a narrow income, considering the calls upon you. As you did not
increase it by economy, or by devoting yourself to the improvement of
the estates, you were bound, if you did marry, to choose a wife with
money. I saved and pinched and scraped out of my means. You spent all
you had in your harum-scarum way, never resting under your own roof, as
a decent Christian should, but wandering the world over, as if you had
something on your conscience, and squandering your money on those who
doubtless blessed you to your face and mocked you when your back was
turned. Then—"
"Then, mother, I borrowed from you and I owe you money now; but,
remember, you have had fair interest for it, regularly paid, and surely
it has been worth something to reign at Northbrook for eighteen years,
since I came of age."
"Only to lose my place now for that chit of a girl."
"Hush, mother! Say what you choose of me, but be silent or speak kindly
of my wife. I was going to say that I do not think Florence would care
to live at Northbrook, and my associations with my birthplace are none
of the sweetest. Circumstances may, however, make it advisable for us
to settle here. If so, there will be only room for one mistress."
Sir Philip had touched the one tender spot at last. Lady Longridge
might have little room in her heart for her son, and none for his wife,
but she did long to live and die mistress of Northbrook Hall.
"You must pay me the four thousand pounds you owe me, before I stir
from this place," she said.
"That will be quite easy. You will remember that everything connected
with the loan was done as formally as though I were borrowing from a
stranger, and I am entitled to three months' notice, but if you want
the four thousand you can have it. I had a letter from Mr. Melville
quite lately, in which he asked if I knew of anyone who wished to
borrow a few thousands, for he is at his wits' end how to invest some
trust-money."
Foiled once more, Lady Longridge was puzzled what to say. She decided
to "sleep upon it," and, rising from her seat, remarked, "You will
be tired with your journey, and I am overdone with the shock I have
sustained. It would have been better to leave business matters until
to-morrow, so I will say good-night. You are master, and can give your
orders, you know."
She held out her hand—they were not demonstrative this mother and son;
he took it in his own for an instant, and having opened the door for
her, she passed out of the room and up the stairs without another word.
When morning came, Lady Longridge had thought the matter out and
decided on her course of action. She would certainly come off the worse
in an open quarrel with her son. Her reign at the Hall would be over.
And she would either have to betake herself to a smaller residence
which was hers for life, or find a home elsewhere. The house in
question was well let and she had lived at the Hall rent free hitherto.
Thus she was touched in two tender spots—her liking for Northbrook and
her love of money.
For her own sake she resolved to conciliate that "chit of a girl whom
Philip had married." Thus she spoke of the new Lady Longridge to
Thorley.
But for once the elder lady found her match. The young wife, who was
pliable as wax in the hands of one she loved, had a will as strong as
that of her husband's mother, when roused by circumstances to exert it.
The old lady might think she had only to hold out a finger and the
young one would run to seize it, but she found herself mistaken.
Florence was as little likely to bend by a hair's-breadth as was one of
the marble statues in the hall.
"My mother will be in a different humour this morning," said Sir Philip
to his wife, when the morning came. "I dare say she will make herself
very agreeable to you for the future."
"What she may do matters little to me, Philip. I am not likely to see
her. You will please order someone to bring my breakfast here—not your
mother's maid, who seems a kindly person, but of necessity a sort of
domestic spy."
"But surely, Florence, you will meet my mother again. After all, she
had cause to be aggrieved, and she is a lonely woman, getting on in
life."
"I should have thought that one who had known bereavement and
loneliness would have opened her heart to another in like
circumstances. Philip, I shall never forget your mother's look of anger
and hate as you spoke of your wife. It was directed at you, but it
seemed to turn me to stone. She is a fearful woman, Philip, and for a
world's wealth I would not live under the same roof with her."
Hitherto Sir Philip had only seen the tender, loving side of his wife's
character. He had noted her devotion to her suffering parent, her
utter forgetfulness of self, her unwearying patience. He had seen her
caring for the troubled, poverty-stricken people in her neighbourhood,
and finding time to give to others the help, sympathy, and kind words
of which she too stood so much in need. He knew that she had given to
himself no half-hearted affection, and yet her love went hand in hand
with the most exquisite modesty of manner and speech. Now he saw the
other side, and realized that his wife's will would match that of his
mother, and, between the two, his position would be far from agreeable.
"Are you not rather hasty in coming to such a decision?" he asked. "You
have seen so little of my mother."
"Very little in one sense, too much in another. I would not have a
second experience like last night's for the world."
"Well, dearest, I will breakfast with my mother, and you shall have
your meal here. Afterwards we will talk matters over," was Sir Philip's
reply.
Lady Longridge had decided to meet both her son and his wife not with
two fingers, but with both arms extended. She found only her son, who
did not respond to her advances. After a formal greeting, he relapsed
into silence and the newspaper.
"How is Florence this morning? Rested, I hope, poor child! She seemed
almost hysterical last night, and no wonder. She was wearied and
overwrought."
"Thank you, she is better, but will breakfast in her room," replied
Sir Philip. "Do not trouble yourself, mother; I have already ordered
something to be sent up," for her hand was on the bell to summon a
servant.
"Thorley shall go to your wife immediately, Philip. She is a good
creature, as you know."
"It is very kind of you, but Florence will not deprive you of Thorley's
services, even for a short time. She prefers to be waited on by one of
the girls, thank you all the same."
And again Sir Philip devoted himself to the paper.
There was mischief brewing. Lady Longridge noted the stress on those
two words, and felt more uncomfortable than she would have liked to
confess. After an interval of silence she said—
"I know you like to linger over your last cup and the paper, so, if you
will excuse me, I will go up and see Florence."
She was not long absent. When she presented herself at the bedroom
door, she found it locked, and in answer to her knock and request to be
admitted, the voice of her daughter-in-law replied—
"I cannot see any one at present."
There was something in the tone which prevented Lady Longridge from
making a second application for admission, and she returned to her son.
"Your wife will not admit me, Philip," she said.
"It is not always convenient to receive visitors when one is dressing,"
was the calm reply.
"She might have been civil."
"I have always found her more, and better, than merely civil, but she
may be adapting her manners to those prevailing at Northbrook."
And again he turned to the "Times."
Never before had Lady Longridge been puzzled what to do next. After a
short silence she said, in an ironical tone—
"Perhaps your wife will like to see Millward, and give her own orders,
since I must yield place to the new mistress of Northbrook."
"Perhaps so; though I doubt if Florence had realized the fact. Millward
may as well see her."
And, ignoring the irony in his mother's manner, Sir Philip rang for the
housekeeper, and told her she had better wait upon Lady Longridge for
orders.
The woman turned to her from whom she had been accustomed to receive
them; but Sir Philip said—
"I mean my wife. My mother herself suggested that this would be the
better plan. Your young mistress has not left her room yet, but she may
see you."
She did, for she was ready dressed, and after a while Millward
descended the stairs with two impressions on her mind. One was that
the new Lady Longridge had her wits about her, and, though she was so
young, would prove a match for the old one. The second that there would
be some pleasure in serving a beautiful creature like that, who knew
how to unite youth and beauty with dignity, and both with a gracious
manner that made it delightful to receive orders from her.
A tyrannical mistress, who cares nothing for the feelings of her
subordinates, may nevertheless be well served by them. Self-interest
and fear may obtain this much, but such services will only be rendered
until a better opportunity presents itself. So, though Millward had
been twenty years at Northbrook, she went down-stairs glad at heart
with the thought that her "old lady" would meet her match in Sir
Philip's young wife.