HOW GEOFFREY WRITES A LETTER THAT POSSESSES ALL THE PROPERTIES OF
DYNAMITE--AND HOW CONFUSION REIGNS AT THE TOWERS.
In the house of Rodney there is mourning and woe. Horror has fallen upon
it, and something that touches on disgrace. Lady Rodney, leaning back in
her chair with her scented handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, sobs
aloud and refuses to be comforted.
The urn is hissing angrily, and breathing forth defiance with all his
might. It is evidently possessed with the belief that the teapot has
done it some mortal injury, and is waging on it war to the knife.
The teapot, meanwhile, is calmly ignoring its rage, and is positively
turning up its nose at it. It is a very proud old teapot, and is looking
straight before it, in a very dignified fashion, at a martial row of
cups and saucers that are drawn up in battle-array and are only waiting
for the word of command to march upon the enemy.
But this word comes not. In vain does the angry urn hiss. The teapot
holds aloft its haughty nose for naught. The cups and saucers range
themselves in military order all for nothing. Lady Rodney is dissolved
in tears.
"Oh! Nicholas, it can't be true! it really _can't_!" she says, alluding
to the news contained in a letter Sir Nicholas is reading with a puzzled
brow.
He is a tall young man, about thirty-two, yet looking younger, with a
somewhat sallow complexion, large dreamy brown eyes, and very fine sleek
black hair. He wears neither moustache nor whiskers, principally for the
very good reason that Nature has forgotten to supply them. For which
perhaps he should be grateful, as it would have been a cruel thing to
hide the excessive beauty of his mouth and chin and perfectly-turned
jaw. These are his chief charms, being mild and thoughtful, yet a trifle
firm, and in perfect accordance with the upper part of his face. He is
hardly handsome, but is certainly attractive.
In manner he is somewhat indolent, silent, perhaps lazy. But there is
about him a subtle charm that endears him to all who know him. Perhaps
it is his innate horror of offending the feelings of any one, be he
great or small, and perhaps it is his inborn knowledge of humanity, and
the power he possesses (with most other sensitive people) of being able
to read the thoughts of those with whom he comes in contact, that
enables him to avoid all such offence. Perhaps it is his honesty, and
straightforwardness, and general, if inactive, kindliness of
disposition.
He takes little trouble about anything, certainly none to make himself
popular, yet in all the countryside no man is so well beloved as he is.
It is true that a kindly word here, or a smile in the right place, does
more to make a man a social idol than substantial deeds of charity doled
out by an unsympathetic hand. This may be unjust; it is certainly
beyond dispute the fact.
Just now his forehead is drawn up into a deep frown, as he reads the
fatal letter that has reduced his mother to a Niobe. Another young man,
his brother, Captain Rodney, who is two or three years younger than he,
is looking over his shoulder, while a slight, brown-haired, very
aristocratic looking girl is endeavoring, in a soft, modulated voice, to
convey comfort to Lady Rodney.
Breakfast is forgotten; the rolls and the toast and the kidneys are
growing cold. Even her own special little square of home-made bread is
losing its crispness and falling into a dejected state, which shows
almost more than anything else could that Lady Rodney is very far gone
indeed.
Violet is growing as nearly frightened as good breeding will permit at
the protracted sobbing, when Sir Nicholas speaks.
"It is inconceivable!" he says to nobody in particular. "What on earth
does he mean?" He turns the letter round and round between his fingers
as though it were a bombshell; though, indeed, he need not at this stage
of the proceedings have been at all afraid of it, as it has gone off
long ago and reduced Lady Rodney to atoms. "I shouldn't have thought
Geoffrey was that sort of fellow."
"But what is it?" asks Miss Mansergh from behind Lady Rodney's chair,
just a little impatiently.
"Why, Geoffrey's been and gone and got married," says Jack Rodney,
pulling his long fair moustache, and speaking rather awkwardly. It has
been several times hinted to him, since his return from India, that,
Violet Mansergh being reserved for his brother Geoffrey, any of his
attentions in that quarter will be eyed by the family with disfavor. And
now to tell her of her quondam lover's defection is not pleasant.
Nevertheless he watches her calmly as he speaks.
"Is that all?" says Violet, in a tone of surprise certainly, but as
certainly in one of relief.
"No, it is _not_ all," breaks in Sir Nicholas. "It appears from this,"
touching the bombshell, "that he has married a--a--young woman of very
inferior birth."
"Oh! that is really shocking," says Violet, with a curl of her very
short upper lip.
"I do hope she isn't the under-housemaid," said Jack, moodily. "It has
grown so awfully common. Three fellows this year married
under-housemaids, and people are tired of it now; one can't keep up the
excitement always. Anything new might create a diversion in his favor,
but he's done for if he has married another under-housemaid."
"It is worse," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone, coming out for a
brief instant from behind the deluged handkerchief. "He has married a
common farmer's niece!"
"Well, you know that's better than a farmer's common niece," says Jack,
consolingly.
"What does he say about it?" asks Violet, who shows no sign whatever of
meaning to wear the willow for this misguided Benedict, but rather
exhibits all a woman's natural curiosity to know exactly what he has
said about the interesting event that has taken place.
Sir Nicholas again applies himself to the deciphering of the detested
letter. "'He would have written before, but saw no good in making a fuss
beforehand,'" he reads slowly.
"Well, there's good deal of sense in that," says Jack.
"'Quite the loveliest girl in the world,' with a heavy stroke under the
'quite.' That's always so, you know: nothing new or striking about
that." Sir Nicholas all through is speaking in a tone uniformly moody
and disgusted.
"It is a point in her favor nevertheless," says Jack, who is again
looking over his shoulder at the letter.
"'She is charming at all points,'" goes on Sir Nicholas deliberately
screwing his glass into his eye, "'with a mind as sweet as her face.'
Oh, it is absurd!" says Sir Nicholas, impatiently. "He is evidently in
the last stage of imbecility. Hopelessly bewitched."
"And a very good thing, too," puts in Jack, tolerantly: "it won't last,
you know, so he may as well have it strong while he is about it."
"What do you know about it?" says Sir Nicholas, turning the tables in
the most unexpected fashion upon his brother, and looking decidedly
ruffled, for no reason that one can see, considering it is he himself is
condemning the whole matter so heartily. "As he is married to her, I
sincerely trust his affection for her may be deep and lasting, and not
misplaced. She may be a very charming girl."
"She may," says Jack. "Well go on. What more does he say?"
"'He will write again. And he is sure we shall all love her when we see
her.' That is another sentence that goes without telling. They are
always sure of that beforehand. They absolutely arrange our feelings for
us! I hope he will be as certain of it this time six months, for all our
sakes."
"Poor girl! I feel honestly sorry for her," says Jack, with a mild sigh.
"What an awful ass he has made of himself!"
"And 'he is happier now than he has ever been in all his life before.'
Pshaw!" exclaims Sir Nicholas, shutting up the letter impatiently. "He
is mad!"
"Where does he write from?" asks Violet.
"From the Louvre. They are in Paris."
"He has been married a whole fortnight and never deigned to tell his own
mother of it until now," says Lady Rodney, hysterically.
"A whole fortnight! And he is as much in love with her as ever! Oh! she
can't be half bad," says Captain Rodney, hopefully.
"Misfortunes seem to crowd upon us," says Lady Rodney, bitterly.
"I suppose she is a Roman Catholic," says Sir Nicholas musingly.
At this Lady Rodney sits quite upright, and turns appealingly to Violet.
"Oh, Violet, I do hope not," she says.
"Nearly all the Irish farmers are," returns Miss Mansergh, reluctantly.
"When I stay with Uncle Wilfrid in Westmeath, I see them all going to
mass every Sunday morning. Of course"--kindly--"there are a few
Protestants, but they are very few."
"This is too dreadful!" moans Lady Rodney, sinking back again in her
chair, utterly overcome by this last crowning blow. She clasps her hands
with a deplorable gesture, and indeed looks the very personification of
disgusted woe.
"Dear Lady Rodney, I shouldn't take that so much to heart," says Violet,
gently leaning over her. "Quite good people are Catholics now, you know.
It is, indeed, the fashionable religion, and rather a nice one when you
come to think of it."
"I don't want to think of it," says her friend, desperately.
"But do," goes on Violet, in her soft, even monotone, that is so exactly
suited to her face. "It is rather pleasant thinking. Confession, you
know, is so soothing; and then there are always the dear saints, with
their delightful tales of roses and lilies, and tears that turn into
drops of healing balm, and their bones that lie in little glass cases in
the churches abroad. It is all so picturesque and pretty, like an
Italian landscape. And it is so comfortable, too, to know that, no
matter how naughty we may be here, we can still get to heaven at last by
doing some great and charitable deed."
"There is something in that, certainly," says Captain Rodney, with
feeling. "I wonder, now, what great and charitable deed I could do."
"And then isn't it sweet to think," continues Violet, warming to her
subject, "that when one's friends are dead one can still be of some
service to them, in praying for their souls? It seems to keep them
always with one. They don't seem so lost to us as they would otherwise."
"Violet, please do not talk like that; I forbid it," says Lady Rodney,
in a horrified tone. "Nothing could make me think well of anything
connected with this--this odious girl; and when you speak like that you
quite upset me. You will be having your name put in that horrid list of
perverts in the 'Whitehall Review' if you don't take care."
"You really will, you know," says Captain Rodney, warningly; then, as
though ambitious of piling up the agony, he says, _sotto voce_, yet loud
enough to be heard, "I wonder if Geoff will go to mass with her?"
"It is exactly what I expect to hear next," says Geoff's mother, with
the calmness of despair.
Then there is silence for a full minute, during which Miss Mansergh
casts a reproachful glance at the irrepressible Jack.
"Well, I hope he has married a good girl, at all events," says Sir
Nicholas, presently, with a sigh. But at this reasonable hope Lady
Rodney once more gives way to bitter sobs.
"Oh, to think Geoffrey should marry 'a good girl'!" she says, weeping
sadly. "One would think you were speaking of a servant! Oh! it is _too_
cruel!" Here she rises and makes for the door, but on the threshold
pauses to confront Sir Nicholas with angry eyes. "To hope the wretched
boy had married 'a good girl'!" she says, indignantly: "I never heard
such an inhuman wish from one brother to another!"
She withers Sir Nicholas with a parting glance, and then quits the
room, Violet in her train, leaving her eldest son entirely puzzled.
"What does she mean?" asks he of his brother, who is distinctly amused.
"Does she wish poor old Geoff had married a bad one? I confess myself at
fault."
And so does Captain Rodney.
Meantime, Violet is having rather a bad time in the boudoir. Lady Rodney
refuses to see light anywhere, and talks on in a disjointed fashion
about this disgrace that has befallen the family.
"Of course I shall never receive her; that is out of the question,
Violet: I could not support it."
"But she will be living only six miles from you, and the county will
surely call, and that will not be nice for you," says Violet.
"I don't care about the county. It must think what it likes; and when it
knows her it will sympathize with me. Oh! what a name! Scully! Was there
ever so dreadful a name?"
"It is not a bad name in Ireland. There are very good people of that
name: the Vincent Scullys,--everybody has heard of them," says Violet,
gently. But her friend will not consent to believe anything that may
soften the thought of Mona. The girl has entrapped her son, has basely
captured him and made him her own beyond redemption; and what words can
be bad enough to convey her hatred of the woman who has done this deed?
"I meant him for you," she says, in an ill-advised moment, addressing
the girl who is bending over her couch assiduously and tenderly applying
eau-de-cologne to her temples. It is just a little too much. Miss
Mansergh fails to see the compliment in this remark. She draws her
breath a little quickly, and as the color comes her temper goes.
"Dear Lady Rodney, you are really too kind," she says, in a tone soft
and measured as usual, but without the sweetness. In her heart there is
something that amounts as nearly to indignant anger as so thoroughly
well-bred and well regulated a girl can feel. "You are better, I think,"
she says, calmly, without any settled foundation for the thought; and
then she lays down the perfume-bottle, takes up her handkerchief, and,
with a last unimportant word or two, walks out of the room.